


Accursed Salvation

by Thrill_of_hope



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 39,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25722682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thrill_of_hope/pseuds/Thrill_of_hope
Summary: The Weeping Monk cannot be redeemed, but Lancelot seeks salvation all the same. Nimue struggles to lead after her last attempts ended in near-death; can she be a leader in her own right, or is she simply a pawn of the Sword? With enemies on every side, what will become of the Fey as the fight for the Sword plays on?
Relationships: Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 225
Kudos: 466





	1. Chapter 1

They had been traveling for what felt like days. Lancelot could barely hold himself up for the wounds he’d sustained defending the boy; however, he was determined to return Squirrel—Percival, he corrected himself—to safety. He’s certain the Fey Queen would kill him on sight, but at least he could go to his death knowing he had done one decent thing in his short life. He gave a mirthless chuckle at the thought of it, dead at five and twenty. It was no more than he deserved, certainly, but he could not stop himself from imagining a future free of the Red Paladins, of brutality. There would be no salvation for the Weeping Monk, Lancelot thinks, bitterly. 

When Lancelot feels he’s about to collapse, he stops the horse and bids Squirrel help him down. The small boy gives a valiant effort, but he can’t support much of Lancelot’s dead weight. He winces as he all but falls to the ground, grateful at least, that they’ve seemed to stop on the sandy shore of a lake. Exhaustion wins out over self-hatred and reflection, and Lancelot is asleep in minutes. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Squirrel looks down at the sleeping form of Lancelot, this man who had terrorized him, used him as bait, but who had also saved his life. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to trust him, but part of him did. A consequence of the life-saving, to be sure. He leaves the Monk sleeping on the sand while he goes off to retrieve wood for a fire. He imagines their reunion with Nimue once again. He’s sure she’ll scold him for running off after the Green Knight. The Green Knight, who Lancelot all but killed. While he’s definitely looking forward to seeing Nimue again, he can’t help but dread her reaction to his companion. Determined not to think on such matters, Squirrel gathers enough wood to start a small fire and rushes back to their impromptu camp. After lighting the fire, Squirrel settles in for some rest as well.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot does not rest easy, despite his exhaustion. No matter how he’d tried to justify his actions in the past, they always managed to torment him behind closed eyes. It was a different type of anguish today, though. He felt as if he were drowning, his sins stones in his pocket, dragging him into the depths. He thrashed and he fought, but it made no difference. The water filled his lungs, slowly, stealing his last breaths. 

He arises with a gasp, setting every single bruise afire with the jolt. The boy sleeps undisturbed a few feet away, curled around a fire he must have built after Lancelot collapsed into his fitful sleep. He sits, propping his body up gingerly on his arms as he scans his surroundings for any sense of a threat. His eyes are arrested in their movement as they sweep over a form at the water’s edge. There’s something familiar about it, even if he can’t quite make out all the details of the shape. He stands, making his way to the form, a body, he realizes as he nears. A girl, he discovers, as he pushes the hair back from her face. The familiarity strikes him anew. He’s never seen this girl before, he’s certain, but he knows her. He grasps her arm, using what’s left of his strength to pull her from the water. It’s only then, upon touching her skin, that he recognizes the scent the water had covered. The Wolf Blood Witch.

After spending so much of his time trying to hunt her down and kill her, it was surreal to see her resting at his feet, mortally wounded. It was as if he was realizing a victory that was long denied to him, except in this moment, he didn’t feel victorious; he felt like if she died, so did the minuscule chance he had at redemption. That though guiding him, he kneels at her side, ear at her chest, listening for a pulse. He rejoices when he hears the faint pitter of her heart. He pushes down, avoiding the arrows protruding from her chest, trying to compel breath from her lungs. His movements become more insistent when he realizes she’s still not breathing. After a few more moments without success, Lancelot grows angry, irrationally. Angry at her for not breathing. Angry at himself for failing. Angry at God for giving him this chance to do good only to laugh at his futile efforts. 

In a desperate last attempt, Lancelot breathes his breath into her, praying to anyone who will listen for her life. He feels her breathe as if it is his own breath, spluttering water and blood as she returns to this world. She coughs, trying to normalize her breathing. He lifts her head, cradling her in his arms, as if his attention alone could return her to health.

The commotion must have woken Percival, because all of a sudden, he hears him shouting, “Nimue!” in excitement, over and over. He doesn’t know what to make of the boy’s shouts, until the girl’s eyes open wide, awareness flooding through her. Her name is Nimue, he thinks, and suddenly she is real, and not just an icon to destroy. The boy jumps into her arms, holding on for dear life. She winces as he nudges the shaft of an arrow, but then she returns his embrace, the smile that graces her lips unencumbered by the weight of her near-death experience. 

Lancelot feels as if he is intruding on a private moment, unintentionally wrapped up in this emotional reunion. He can’t help the warmth that spreads in his chest at the picture he’s sure they paint, sprawled on the ground as they are. Like a family. The thought comes unbidden, and Lancelot quells it before it can take root in his mind. 

Nimue seems to realize she’s not alone with Squirrel, and finally, she meets his eye, disoriented. He sees the moment she recognizes him, her features twisting first in terror and then in confusion. “You?!” He can’t tell if it’s a question or an accusation. She practically catapults herself out of his arms. 

Before he can say a word, Percival offers some words in his defense. “He saved me, Nimue. From the guy with his eyes sewn shut who killed the Green Knight! From the creepy men in the gold masks!”  
She looks as though she wants to interject, to establish that his misdeeds greatly outweigh any good that he may have done. Lancelot certainly wouldn’t have argued with that, but he’s touched just the same when the boy continues to defend him.  
“I know he’s done a lot of bad things. I’ve seen it!” Nimue raises her eyebrows at that. Lancelot winces. ”But he’s trying to be good now.” He can tell she doesn’t believe that for a second. “And I like him,” Percival finishes, as if that is the most important thing he’s said.

He can see her softening, and he gets the impression that Nimue couldn’t refuse the boy anything. “Does your friend have a name?” The question seems to be directed at Percival, but her cerulean gaze is intent upon Lancelot. It’s unsettling.  
“Lancelot,” he says, still not quite used to the way it sounds.  
“Lancelot,” she repeats, testing it out. She turns to the boy. “I suppose Lancelot can accompany us to…” she trails off, remembering there is nowhere for them to return to. “I suppose he can accompany us for now.”

Lancelot lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He was not sure where they were headed, but he was relieved that she hadn’t cast him off. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The adrenaline wearing off, Nimue collapses suddenly, as pain ripples through her chest.  
Without a word, Lancelot is at her side again, surveying her wounds. “I’ll need to remove these,” he motions to the arrows. 

“Will it hurt terribly?” Nimue asks, voice quivering.

Lancelot doesn’t want to lie to her. He nods. “But, it will be over quickly.” Turning to Squirrel, he bids the boy fetch his cloak and help him move Nimue closer to the fire.  
Once she’s situated, he studies the arrows stuck in her flesh. One sits just below her arm, having gone nearly through her body. The other sits lower in her chest; it must have just missed her heart. 

His hands move to the first arrow. “I’ll have to push this through your back,” he says as one hand steadies the entry site, while the other rests on the shaft. 

Her eyes widen in fear. Seeing this, the boy sits by her side, and takes her hand in his. She squeezes it. “On the count of three.” Nimue nods, steeling herself for the pain to come. “One.” She breathes deeply. “Two.” Before she can anticipate the pain, he’s shoved the arrow through her skin. Quickly, he snaps the head off and pulls the arrow out by the tail.

“Who taught you to count?” She grits out, glaring at him. She’s sure he doesn’t smile at that. He wouldn’t dare.

He moves on to the second arrow. “I’ll have to pull this out slowly, to make sure it’s not clinging to anything inside you.” He sweeps a hand down her arm, an attempt at comfort. “I’ll try not to cause you any undue pain.” 

Nimue nods again, as ready as she’ll ever be. He moves slowly, as promised, and it feels as if he’s dragging burning coals along her heart. He continues to pull steadily, determined not to cause any more damage. After an eternity, she sees the crimson coated bodkin and feels like she can finally breathe freely. 

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Lancelot mutters, and she’s never wanted to kill him more. “We need to stop the bleeding.” He reaches to his belt, withdrawing a sheathed dagger. Leaving the blade resting in the fire’s flames, Lancelot tears a strip from his cloak, using the material to help staunch the bleeding. After several moments of firm pressure to her wounds, he seems satisfied, shucking the blood-soaked fabric. 

Nimue sighs, relieved, thinking that’s the end of it, until he brandishes the white-hot dagger. “And just what do you intend to do with that?” She demands, nearly certain he means to torture her. 

“I must seal the wound.”

“Seal the wound,” she repeats, dumbfounded. 

“You cannot walk about with gaping holes in your chest,” he replies, as if speaking to a child. “This pain will be intense, but please try to stay as still as possible.”

She’s come this far. “Do it.”

As fire melts her flesh, she screams, trying to expel the immense pain. Nimue feels the fire in her very soul as he seals each gaping wound. Finally, when she’s sure this pain will be her end, he drops the dagger in the sand. “There.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot lets out his breath in a rush, relieved the mending is finished. She moves to stand, seeming determined to undo his efforts. “You need to rest,” he chides. 

“What I need is to return to my people,” Nimue responds, defiant. 

“And you will. After you’ve rested.”

“Just because you’ve saved my life does not mean you can tell me what to do,” she retorts, petulantly. 

“That’s exactly what it means. Now, lie back down.” His hand on her shoulder guides her back to the sand, and he places what’s left of his cloak over her recumbent form. “You can argue with me to your heart’s content later. Rest now.”

She finds she cannot help but do as he commands; being so near death had stolen any energy she may have possessed.

“Later,” she promises, eyes closing as she finally succumbs to rest.

Lancelot collapses in the sand not far away, feeling the ache of his own wounds he had ignored to focus on saving the girl. Nimue. His weren’t the type of wounds he could heal. He’d have to let time do that. And just live with the lingering pain, a reminder. How appropriate.


	2. Chapter 2

Nimue does argue with him. About everything. 

When he informs her that her people never boarded Uther’s ships, she’s certain they must have remained near the shore. 

“Strategically, it would be a poor decision to stay in such a place, what with the Vikings to the sea and the Church undoubtedly in pursuit.”

“Well, where do you suggest we start?” She’s defensive, annoyed that he seems intent to always question her decision-making. “You’re the Fey hunter, after all.” She refuses to feel guilty for the barb when a shadow passes over his features. It’s true; saving her life does not change that. 

“We should head toward the coast,” he concedes. “Once we’re closer, I’ll see if I can pick up a trail.”

“Then we’re agreed.” She stamps out the fire as she has the final word. They move around each other in silence, preparing to set off.

When he recommends she and Percival sit astride Goliath while he leads on foot, she’s determined to go on foot instead. 

He’s not sure why she feels the need to contend with him about every little thing, especially when he’s trying to be considerate of her wounds. It irritates him, but then, he had promised her she could argue with him to her heart’s content. 

Percival, annoyed by their bickering, offers another solution. “How about I go on foot and the two of you ride the horse? You are both injured, after all.”

They both scoff at that. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue glares down at Squirrel from her perch on Lancelot’s horse, the man’s arms reaching around her to hold the reins. She was just being stubborn, refusing Lancelot’s offer to make her more comfortable, and now, she’s suffering the consequences. She’s determined not to speak to him, not to touch him. The latter is difficult, given their proximity. 

After some distance, his arm grazes the scar on her upper back from where he’d forced the arrow through her skin. She winces, the puckered flesh still incredibly tender. She turns to glower at him. “You did that on purpose.”

“Yes, princess, I saved your life only to toy with you by continually prodding your wounds,” he scoffs, “makes perfect sense.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how do I know this isn’t some elaborate scheme to gain my trust and maximize the impact of the pain when you do kill me?”

“That would be far too much effort,” he points out. “Not my style.”

“People can change.” Her words have far more weight than her joking tone suggests. 

He laughs at that, grimly. “I guess we’ll see.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

They settle into a sort of routine over the next several days. It’s not exactly comfortable, as Nimue still does not trust or really even know Lancelot’s motives. They continue to bicker, a fact which Squirrel complains about, very dramatically. During one particular argument about how best to approach the coastline, Squirrel has had enough. “You’re both being stupid! If you’d just shut up for one minute you might have noticed the directions,” he gestures to the branches and greenery wound together in ancient symbolism. 

Lancelot jumps to the ground, as Nimue looks slack-jawed down at Squirrel upon being insulted. 

“We’ll find them due west,” Lancelot interprets the signs, “it shouldn’t be far.” Helping the boy mount Goliath, Lancelot takes the reins and leads them on foot. Nimue is relieved for the distance between her and the Monk. She was afraid that the more familiar she got with him, the harder it would be to see him as purely a monster, something she did not want to give up just yet. 

It’s nearly dark when Lancelot draws Goliath to a halt. “We’ve arrived.”

“This can’t be it, there’s no one guarding the perimeter,” Nimue objects.

Lancelot gestures to the woman with a bow trained on him. “You were saying?”

“Not another move, demon,” the woman spits in his direction. 

“Kaze?” Nimue questions, drawing the woman’s gaze up to her and Squirrel. 

“Nimue?” The woman steps closer, but does not release Lancelot from her sight. “Morgana told us you were dead.” Her gaze moves suspiciously to Lancelot. “Why have you brought him here?”

“Kaze, Morgana was right. I was dead. Or I should have been.” She nods toward the Monk. “He saved me. He led us here safely; we needed him. Now…” she trails off, uncertain about his future. 

“A matter for tomorrow, when you look less like death,” Kaze says, decidedly. “Until then, my men will keep an eye on this one,” she nods in Lancelot’s direction, vehemently. “Let me take you to Arthur.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

From the moment he arrives in the Fey camp, he’s certain the man Nimue refers to as Arthur wants to murder him. It’s to be expected, really, but he’d gotten used to being tolerated (and maybe even liked?) by Nimue and the boy, that he finds himself dreading the tension, the hate his presence will provoke. 

Nimue seems to understand this, or maybe she’s simply exhausted from days of travel, but either way, he’s grateful when she silences Arthur’s protests. “Tomorrow.”

Arthur nods, not daring to argue, and leads her toward his tent, a hand protectively at her back as he eyes Lancelot furiously over his shoulder. 

Lancelot lets out a sigh of relief when Arthur fades from view. He’s tempted to just leave during the night, but then he thinks of Percival. He’s hesitant to leave the boy. Maybe it’s because he reminds Lancelot of himself, a Fey orphan. Or maybe, it’s because he was his first step on the road to salvation. Salvation. Not the bastardized version he sought, fruitlessly, under Father Carden’s guidance, but a true freeing of his soul. A light, snuffing out the darkness that has consumed him for so long. 

He sits around a fire, near Percival, the one Fey who didn’t hate him. Well, completely. He doesn’t intend to sleep, discomfited by the eyes watching his every move, but eventually his body betrays him, worn down, bruised, in need of rest. 

He doesn’t find peace in sleep, but does awake renewed enough to face the tribunal he’s certain awaits him. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Nimue wandering through the trees as if being summoned. He moves to follow her, but at the cutting glare of one of his guards, he slumps back down. Better not anger these people before seeking shelter with them. Surely she’s safe here. He leans back and plans his defense.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue wakes groggily, hearing someone whisper her name. At first, she thinks it’s Arthur, but she turns to find him fast asleep beside her. She sees no one, but the voice persists, bidding her follow. She remembers the last time she had followed. A great demon bear. Terrible scars. The Hidden hearing her prayers. 

She makes her way through the trees, as if in a waking dream, desperate to find this voice which calls to her. She should be afraid, but instead, she feels…at peace. Nimue stops as the voice grows louder and she’s face to face with Merlin. Her father.

“Morgana told me you were…” he trails off, in disbelief. “I thought for certain you had died.” 

“I nearly did.” Nimue whispers. “I suppose the Hidden are not finished with me yet.” She’s not sure how to feel about it; she had been so relieved to be free from the weight of a People entirely dependent upon her next move. And now she was back, soon to be at the center of it all again. What did she have to offer? Why had the Hidden chosen her?

Merlin wraps her in a tentative embrace, his hand moving softly over her hair, a fatherly act of comfort she had never experienced as a child. “I know this is a lot to take on, but you have a greater part to play in all of this, yet.” He holds the cursed Sword up for her to reclaim. “What say you, Fey Queen?”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

A few hours later, Lancelot is summoned to a large tent, empty, save for the few that must serve as the Queen’s council. They must have spent the morning hours updating her about the current state of affairs. He stands before them, determined not to show weakness. 

“Swear your allegiance to our Queen, on your honor, if you have any,” Arthur spits derisively, “and maybe we’ll let you stay.”

“I’ll not just swear my unquestioning loyalty to her because simpletons here are swayed by a pretty girl, her strong words, and an oversized mystical sword.” He doesn’t mean to be so insulting, but he’s so unfamiliar with respectful conversation, unless it’s marked by deference, something he has no wish to return to. 

Nimue ignores the flutter in her chest as it fights with indignation and offense. “You think yourself above them?”

“I’ve not said that,” he pauses, considering his words going forward. “I simply do not wish to blindly follow because it is the popular thing to do, because others say it is the right thing to do.” 

She’s surprised at that. Apparently quite philosophical, this Weeping Monk.  
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with that when you massacred my people and destroyed Fey villages,” Nimue offers in challenge. 

He meets her eye, his gaze unwavering. “A byproduct of unquestioning loyalty.”

Arthur scoffs. 

“And because you’ve questioned your loyalty, I’m supposed to, what?” she bites, “forgive you?”

“You don’t have to forgive me. Hell, you don’t even have to talk to me.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Nimue murmurs, nearly unintelligible. 

At that, he’s reminded that despite the responsibility thrust upon her, she’s hardly more than a child. He can’t help the smirk that displaces his otherwise solemn demeanor. 

She sees his lips rise in a smirk and it startles her; she can’t quite seem to reconcile the menacing man from her visions and the man in front of her now, despite the days spent with him and Squirrel on the road. 

“Is it not enough that I have come to you, offering my services against your enemies?”

“It is not,” Arthur replies, stonily. “Why should we trust you? A man, nay, a Fey, who would slaughter his own kind?” The others nod at this, confirming their distrust.

“I cannot offer any excuse, any justification for the atrocities I have committed in the past. I only ask that you now allow me to try to atone for my multitude of sins.”

Nimue is silent at that, weighing the sincerity of his words. Against all counsel, she feels led to trust him, to believe the best of him. She can sense Arthur ready to deny him his redemptive quest. She speaks the final word.  
“You can stay. But give me reason to question your motives, and I’ll kill you myself.”

As unimposing as she is, he believes her.   
“I would not dream of it, my lady.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

“You’re letting him stay? Him?” Arthur glares at her. “He tried to kill me. He did kill Gawain.”   
Nimue had expected animosity. She knew the others would not be so accepting of Lancelot, as Squirrel had called him the day he’d pulled her from the water. However, they were drastically outnumbered, even with the Red Spear and her forces—they needed a man of his talents, even if his talents had so recently included genocide against her people. She reminded Arthur of this. “He is unrivaled with a sword. We need him if we’re to have any luck against Cumber and the Church.”

“What about Merlin?” Arthur questions, grasping at anything that will rid them of the Monk. “Morgana told us your father’s magic is as strong as in the legends of old.”

“Without the sword, he cannot sustain his magic for long enough to be as impactful as you suggest.” Nimue absentmindedly grips the sword’s pommel. “Besides, he’s vowed not to wield the Sword of Power again.”

“I seem to remember him making that promise once before to no avail.”

Nimue sighs, not wanting to get into the complicated mystery that was her father.  
“He was dying. I was dead. I’ll forgive him this once for breaking a promise to me.”

Realizing his suggestion of an alternative was ultimately fruitless, Arthur returns to his original tactic. “You cannot trust him, Nimue.” Arthur pleads. “He’s pure evil. I don’t know what he’s told you, or what he’s promised, but you cannot trust him.”

“I don’t trust him. I don’t even want to try to. But, we need him, Arthur, and so for now, we have a reluctant truce. Please don’t do anything to ruin that.”

He only relents because he can hear her desperation, hear the exasperation from trying to convince her people she’s not crazy for allowing a murderer to walk among them.   
He wraps her in his arms, letting her release the weight of the day onto him. Arthur couldn’t always understand her burdens, but he was determined to help her carry them in any way she would let him. And so, his lips to her forehead, he murmurs, “alright.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

He maintains a low profile. Well, as much as he can for someone who, up until recently, was a fixture in his neighbors’ nightmares. He sees the way they look at him when he walks by. He used to believe the looks of fear made him stronger in a way. While he’d created a terrifying monster in his own right, the legends of his cruelty spread faster than his sword ever could; he had personally terrorized many of them, and the ones he hadn’t were petrified of him anyway. It would have thrilled his father. It left him feeling hollow.

It wasn’t so simple, this redemption business. Not that he thought he could be redeemed. He was way past that. But, if he was to go on living, he could not continue to deny his nature and harm his people. His people. The Green Knight had believed he could change. Called him brother. Lancelot wished it were that easy. That he could belong here. That these could be his people. He felt less at home here than amongst zealots whose sole aim was to wipe people like him from existence. Maybe it would take time. Maybe he could never undo a lifetime of evil, despite attempting to outweigh it with good. But, attempt he would, even if the Fey decried him as a monster upon his dying breath.


	3. Chapter 3

“Again.”

Nimue struggles to raise her sword, her arms worn out from hours of sparring. 

They’d taken to practicing together after sessions with Arthur became more distraction than instruction. He’s surprisingly patient, and he certainly has a wealth of knowledge and skills to impart. She’d seem him instructing the children — they sat captivated as he swung a wooden stick in various demonstrations. She suspects Squirrel had much to do with the way the children flocked to him. He was terrifying, but intriguing, and intrigue was starting to win out.

“You haven’t had enough?” She taunts, a move she knows by now won’t distract him, but she can’t resist. 

Lancelot smirks. “You could always yield.”

“To you?” He shrugs, as though the idea is not completely outlandish. “Never.”

He barks out a laugh. “Have it your way.” 

Before she can even process the fact that he’s just laughed—an act so unfamiliar, she’s not even certain she believes it happened—he’s swinging his sword at her. She barely has time to duck out of the way before he’s swinging for her again. Surprise subsided, she brings her blade up to block his.  
“Parry, don’t block,” he corrects, forcing her sword to the ground as his grazes her throat. “Always think steps ahead, like a dance. Don’t wait for me to determine your steps.”

She’s determined to best him today, but is not off to a stunning start. She puts off the thoughts of impossibility, determined to wield the Sword, not simply be wielded by it. 

He steps back and she raises her sword once more. This time when his blade meets hers, she pushes against him, forcing him back as she lunges to strike anew. He dodges her easily, and with a slight shove to her back, she’s on the ground. “Don’t lunge,” he instructs, as he offers her a hand. “Always be in control of your momentum. Move your feet in tandem with your blade.”

She yanks him to the ground, crouching over him, blade pointed at his chest. His blade dislodged, feet away, and still he offers instruction. “Never think you’ve outsmarted your opponent,” he says, hands held up in surrender. 

Nimue rolls her eyes. “Where exactly is my disadvantage? I have you on your ba—“

He sweeps her legs out from under her, and in one swift motion, steals the sword from her hand and pins her to the ground, blade hovering loosely at her neck. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Me?” She scoffs, pretending to be affronted. 

“You celebrated too early, let me goad you into complacency.” She can feel his breath on her neck. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t leave any room for surprises.”

Frustrated, she moves to headbutt him, trying to throw him as she had Arthur not so long ago. He hardly registers the blow, but seems impressed, nonetheless. “Not bad, but not enou—"

She silences him with her mouth, needing just a momentary distraction. His lips are soft against hers and she tries not think of that as she seeks to outmaneuver him. He pulls away, tightening the blade at her throat. “A valiant effort,” he smirks, a slight blush dusting his cheeks, “but you’ve failed to gain an advantage.”

“Have I?” Nimue questions innocently, nodding down at the dagger she has aimed at his heart.

Slow, exaggerated clapping draws their attention to the edge of the clearing. “Well, that was certainly…creative,” Merlin comments, raising an eyebrow, suggestively. 

Lancelot stands, the Sword of Power dangling awkwardly in one hand, the other extended to help Nimue from the ground. She stands, quick to create distance between them as Merlin saunters over, robes flourishing with intensity around his feet. 

“I’ll just…” Lancelot trails off, as he moves to leave the clearing. 

“Lancelot?” Merlin intones, turning to face the departing man. 

“Yes?” He sounds rattled, unusual for him. 

“The sword?” Merlin drops his gaze to the sword still in Lancelot’s hand. 

Lancelot hurries back over to the pair, apologies at the ready. “Of course. Your sword, my lady.” His fingertips graze her palm as he returns the sword to her hand. She ignores the shiver it sends down her spine. 

When he’s left the clearing, Merlin gives her a knowing look. 

“I assume you came here with a purpose?” 

“Can’t a father just check in on his daughter?” Merlin asks, innocently.

While it had been strange at first when he’d referred to himself as her father, she finds herself warming to the label. “Yes, but when your father is the most powerful magician in legend, and you the Queen of the Fey, it seems unlikely.”

He laughs, her assessment ringing true. “I’m returning to Uther’s court, as an emissary of the Fey. And to keep the weasel in check. He’s far more clever now that he’s not under his, well, mother’s, thumb.”

Uther was unpredictable in this clash for the sword. The Church had allied with Cumber when it became clear they could use his ruthlessness to their advantage. Uther, betrayed by one, and disdained by the other, set his might against their combined forces. Despite their shared enemies, he was no friend to the Fey. He’d become entangled in the Church’s vendetta when he denied them her, the Wolf Blood Witch. Uther was not friend or foe for the moment, and she did not trust him, as he’d proven to be quite crafty in the recent past. She understood why Merlin had to leave, and while she was glad for his influence over Uther, she would miss him, her father. The only family she had left. 

Before she can think better of it, she wraps her arms around him in an embrace. He stiffens at first, the act still unfamiliar to them. After a moment, he relaxes, holding her tightly. “Stay strong, daughter.” She smiles at his wisdom, his encouragement. 

As they separate, she sees the mischievous look on his face, and dreads what she knows is coming next. “And keep, uh, practicing,” he winks, “with the sword.”

She simply rolls her eyes, trying to suppress the blush that threatens to bloom across her cheeks as they walk side by side back to camp. She thanks the Hidden it was Merlin and not Arthur who happened upon them at that moment. It was purely tactical. A method of disarming an opponent with superior skills who seemed to anticipate her every move. Somehow, she’s sure Arthur would not see it that way.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur wasn’t sure what possessed him to approach the Monk. He’s certain he meant to wear him down with another scathing indictment, but instead, he asks him to spar. He’s not sure which of them is more surprised. The man acquiesces, although Arthur can tell he’s confused. 

The Monk leads him to a clearing a ways off from camp. Arthur wonders if this is where he spars with Nimue. He’s tempted to jealousy, as he had been with Gawain, but then he thinks better of it. This man isn’t a rival. He’s a monster.

They exchange blows. And again. And again, the Monk testing the limitations of his reflexes. Arthur had always thought he was quick, but this man put him to shame. “The way you move is inhuman,” Arthur pants, desperate to keep up.

The Monk hits him with an unpredictable string of strikes, putting him on the defensive. “I suppose I’m not human. Not really.” 

“And yet, it appears you’re motivated by honor, like any man,” Arthur admits, begrudgingly. 

“Not any man,” the Monk blocks his attack with ease, “just the good ones.”

Arthur scoffs. “You would count yourself among them?”

“Certainly not. But, you,” his sword pointed at Arthur, “you have a nobility unencumbered by regal expectation. You are good for the sake of good.”

Angered by the man’s assessment, Arthur strikes hard and fast. “You know nothing about me, Monk. You think you see all with those weeping eyes, but you see nothing!”

The Monk rains down blows upon Arthur, no longer testing, but dominating. There’s no hesitation as he disarms Arthur and aims the tip of his sword at Arthur’s throat. “You move well,” he compliments. “We should spar again.” He lowers his sword. “I need someone to challenge me.”

“That was challenging for you?” Arthur queries, his incredulity only slightly mocking.

The Monk simply shrugs, sheathes his sword, and saunters off in the direction of camp.

Arthur takes a few moments to catch his breath before heading in the same direction. He’s not sure why he let the Monk’s words get to him; what did he know of honor, anyway?

Still, as he walks through the trees, he imagines himself as the man the Monk had called him. Noble. Good, unselfishly. He shakes his head. Not in this lifetime, he thinks, and removes the image from his mind before it can inspire hope.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________

He should not have said anything. He should have kept his thoughts to himself, as he’d spent his lifetime doing. Now, Arthur would likely think him disingenuous, manipulative, even. That was not his intent. He was making an observation, stating a truth. 

And it was the truth. This was a man who did the right thing, the decent thing, no matter the personal consequence. Lancelot had sensed this honor when Arthur had saved the Fey warrior from continued torture at his hand. He’d admired the strength of will that had required, even if it had frustrated him at the time.

Arthur may have been drawn to the cause because of his attachment to Nimue, but it was clear to Lancelot that he stayed because he cared about protecting the Fey and helping to create a more harmonious world.

Lancelot respects the man’s idealism, his vision for their world. He’s skeptical of committing himself so steadfastly to any ideals again, but wonders if he can truly do good without such a commitment. Surely it was enough to be loyal, brave, and true? Honorable? He wouldn’t know where to begin.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur rises early in the days that follow, meeting the Monk to spar before the camp awakens. It’s grueling, but he finds for all his exhaustion, the practice has made his mind quicker, his steps more exact. The man was undoubtedly an impressive swordsman, one that would instill confidence when he shielded your back in battle. Too bad he could not be trusted to do that.

He heads back to his tent after a particularly intensive exercise, proud he’d made the Monk lose his footing, if only for a second. A small victory, but a victory, nonetheless.  
Drained, he collapses next to Nimue, doing his best not to wake her. 

Her groggy, “Arthur?” alerts him that he’s failed in that. “Where have you been?” She yawns, stretching the sleep away.

“Sparring.” Her yawn is contagious. “With the Monk.”

“With Lancelot?” She asks, surprised.

“Aye,” he responds, already half-asleep. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Empathizing with the exhaustion resulting from a sparring session with Lancelot, Nimue leaves him to rest. Still early, she’s determined to freshen up at the creek before the camp is bustling with activity. 

It’s peaceful, the early morning. Something about the air is cleaner, sweeter, then when it’s shared with so many others. She feels more in-tune with the Hidden, no one around to distract her, to make her feel ashamed of what she is. Of her curse.

She meditates, willing the Hidden to reveal some piece of her destiny, of her purpose in all of this. She waits, desperate for something, anything. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of water flowing and birds chirping. She opens her eyes in resignation. Perhaps it’s best not to know. 

Intent on washing her frustration away before she starts the day, she makes her way down the rocky outcropping to the water’s edge. She sees a dark shirt and boots stacked neatly in the sand and curses the lack of solitude. Nimue finds Lancelot sitting a short distance away, his feet in the creek as he rests on his elbows, wet hair dripping in the sand.

Initially, she’s struck by how relaxed he seems. She’s never seen him so at ease. When he sits up straighter, she’s struck anew, this time by the scars that cover his back. They map out an agony she cannot imagine, her hand reaching subconsciously for her own scars. Her heart aches for him in that moment; how could she remain hardened against him in the face of such pain?

Too lost in her own thoughts, Nimue does not see Lancelot stand until he is facing her, shirt in his hand, speaking her name. 

“Sorry, I…” Nimue wants so desperately to ask him about his scars, but she feels she has intruded on a private moment, seeing him this way. “I suppose we had the same idea,” she says instead, gesturing to the creek.

“I suppose we did.” He’s quick to replace his shirt, but not before she sees the mottled purple bruises clinging to the musculature of his torso. 

Without thinking, her hands lift his shirt and survey his bruised ribs. He winces at the contact. “Don’t tell me Arthur’s done this to you?” She meets his eye with a hint of humor.

He laughs. “He could not take me on his best day.” The retort speaks not of arrogance, but an answer to her humor, and so she laughs with him. 

Laughter subsiding, she asks him, seriously, “What happened?”

“An encounter with the Trinity Guard.” She doesn’t recognize the name. “A group of highly trained papal soldiers,” Lancelot continues, “designed to cut down enemies of the Church.”

Understanding floods through her. “From when you saved Squirrel?" It’s more a statement than a question, the answer already clear in her mind. He nods. “Thank you, for that. I’m not sure I could bear to lose him.” Tears prick her eyes at the thought of it.

He looks down, awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, with her gratitude. His eyes fall to her hand, still on his chest. With her touch. She drops her hand back to her side as if burned. 

“We’ll spar tonight?” He asks, quick to change the subject. She nods. He returns to camp upon her confirmation, and she’s left less at peace than when she arrived.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been some time without any sign of trouble from Cumber, the Church, or Uther, for that matter. To the others, it was a reprieval. It made Nimue uneasy. And so, she set to planning. Gone were the days of the reactive, defensive Fey. If they were to have any hope of survival, she needed to be more proactive in her tactics. 

It was a simple scouting mission, a survey of the land to ensure they were safe at their current camp from any approaching threats. She fully intended to go alone, but Arthur coerced her into taking Lancelot. “For protection. I’m loathe to admit it, but he can track and fight better than anyone here.” She cannot disagree with that. “Plus, if he dies…”

“Arthur!” She’d chided, cutting off his morbid sentiment.

And, so, Nimue and Lancelot set off to map out the land around them, looking for any threats or resources that could be of use. It is uneventful, for the most part. They walk in silence, Lancelot occasionally stopping at the sight of tracks, or Nimue to explore natural shelters. 

Nimue cannot help but think of his scars, as she has many a time since she’d happened upon him at the creek. The jagged lashes spoke of torture, some old, and some fairly recent. She couldn’t help but feel that he was less of a monster than she’d initially thought him to be. In her mind, his lashes were given when he’d failed to be Carden’s ideal Demon hunter, a consistent, agonizing reminder not to fail again. He’d still done monstrous things, but she found herself beginning to separate the man from his deeds; she wasn’t sure she liked the development. 

They go for miles, a similar pattern, before they approach a meadow. Lancelot breaks the silence. “Why are you going on a scouting mission? Seems like it would be safer to send someone in your stead,” he observes, leveling her with an inquisitive look. 

“Safer for me, perhaps, but not for whoever I send out. I won’t send others into danger while I sit back and wait.” Her face speaks of regret. “Not again.”

He regards her, carefully. “But surely, I could have done this alone, at no risk to your people?”

She’s wary at that. “I do not think many would trust you to act in their interest, given…” she trails off. He nods, determined not to show how that stings.

“They think I’m a spy, sent to infiltrate your camp, intent on bringing down the Fey once and for all, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, save for the sound of long grass brushing their legs with every step. Nimue breathes the air in deeply, imagining a village set in this peaceful clearing. She and Pym could walk amongst the trees, talking about everything and nothing. She’d chide Squirrel for stealing, make a home with Arthur, and Lancelot, well…she’s not sure how he fits into it all just yet.

“Then why am I here with you?” He asks, after a beat, curious. 

She’s confused at first, concerned he’d somehow read her thoughts, but then she remembers their conversation before she’d started daydreaming. “I said that they didn’t trust you.” He stops at that, not daring to believe her implication. “Besides, you’re right after all. This is a dangerous mission.” She puts on an air of drama. “You’re protection.”

He scoffs in mock disbelief. “And who, exactly, told the witch with the all-powerful sword she needed protection?”

“That’s what I said!” Nimue laughs in agreement. “Arthur practically forced me to bring you along!”

Lancelot freezes, and Nimue is sure she’s said the wrong thing. Before she can voice an apology or offer clarification, he’s got an iron grip on her wrist and is dragging her back into the trees. She hasn’t been afraid of him for a while now, but something about the intensity in his eyes, in his posture frightens her anew. 

“Lancelot?” She hates how timid she sounds. 

“We need to keep moving.”

“Lancelot?” 

Her unasked question is answered a moment later as she catches a glimpse of red in the distance, getting closer with each passing second. 

“Run, Nimue!” And suddenly she’s being pulled away in a sprint, careening through brush and trees. He drags her along as he expertly evades their pursuer, almost like he’d lived a life of prey rather than predator. 

Some distance momentarily achieved, Nimue bids Lancelot to simply kill the man and end this chase.

“No.” 

She reaches for her sword. “Then I will.”

“No,” he repeats, adamant. 

Their hands still joined, Lancelot pushes her back against a tree, his other hand flat against the tree’s bark. The argument on her tongue is quelled when she sees his hand blend into the bark. She stares in disbelief as slowly, more of him appears to… disappear into the tree. She notices her own form start to blend into the bark, too. 

The Paladin rushes by, following eagerly in the direction they had fled. He stops, unsure how his prey could have vanished without a trace. He looks wildly about, in every direction, desperate for some hint as to their path. Finally, he moves on, blazing a trail away from where they are hidden. 

Lancelot waits several minutes, wanting to be sure the Paladin has long moved on. He releases his hand from the trunk, his skin taking the place of its former camouflage. Nimue jolts, returning to herself. 

“Wha--How?” Awestruck, she examines their joined hands as the scaly brown hues recede into flesh. “I didn’t realize you were so in tune with the Hidden.” There’s no other explanation for such an awesome display of power. She can’t help the jealousy that tints her voice.

“I’m not.” 

Nimue meets his eye, annoyed. “Why are you so determined to deny what you are?”

“That is a story for another time.” He untangles his hand from her grasp. “Now, we’re going to track the man you were so eager to kill.” He shoots her an accusatory look. “If we’re lucky, he’ll lead us to their encampment.”

Although she knows he’s right, he’s made her feel foolish, impulsive; he has a habit of doing that. “Is it always strategy, never passion with you?”

“Let not the Devil tempt you into passion,” he parrots, and she gets the impression he’s been told this many a time before.

“That’s a sorry way to live.”

“It’s a good way not to die,” he counters, heading off in the direction the Paladin had gone, effectively ending the conversation.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot tracks the man easily. He’d made no attempt to conceal his path, an arrogance Lancelot had expected. Nimue follows not far behind him. He can feel her watching him intently as he reads the signs of a trail. Her gaze unnerves him. She unnerves him, always prodding in places he wants to keep hidden. It’s like she’s trying to elicit some confession from him, read into his very soul. He’s afraid that if he starts confessing, he’ll never be able to stop, and any semblance of trust she had in him would evaporate in an instant at the truth of his horrible past. He didn’t want to lose that, slight as it was.

Her eyes dart aside anytime he attempts to meet her gaze, avoiding the contact. It’s childish, the way she’s ignoring him, but he deserves it for being so abrupt earlier. Hesitantly, he offers to show her the signs he’s following in an attempt to restore the peace between them. She nods, almost reluctant, but she readily absorbs his explanation of impressions in the dirt, disturbances in the leaves and branches. 

He places a hand to the ground, and as had happened before, his skin takes the appearance of the earth beneath him. He closes his eyes in concentration. He never had more clarity than when he became one with the world around him. 

“And that?” Nimue beseeches, a strange look in her eye. 

There she goes, prodding again. His clarity clouded, he pulls his hand from the ground. “My curse,” he spits, “the reason Father Carden kept me alive all these years.”

Her eyebrows furrow, “what is it, exactly, that you sense?”

“Everything,” he says on a breath, unburdening. “I feel every being, as certain as the earth feels their impact. I hear them, smell them. I feel them, as certain as I feel my own heart beat.”

Nimue own heart tightens at the pain, the desperation his voice betrays. “And the Fey?” She bids him to continue. 

“The Fey,” Lancelot starts, uncertain how to go on. “The Fey I feel like the very air I breathe.” He chuckles, mirthlessly. “I suppose my father intended it that way.” 

“Father Carden?” She prods. 

He shakes his head at that, his voice soft. “No.”

He says nothing else for a moment, and Nimue feels certain he won’t continue as he paces away from her hurriedly. She follows, a near run to match his larger stride. She latches on to his wrist, arresting his movement. He turns to face her once again, and she’s startled by the brokenness in his eyes, undisguised. He’s vulnerable. Mere days ago, she would have delighted in his weakness, sought to exploit it. In this moment, she aches with him. 

“Tell me,” Nimue pleads, her hand sweeping up his arm, a small gesture of comfort.

He nods, before he’s even aware he’s done it, and she guides him to the foot of a great tree, where she sits beside him. He draws in a ragged breath, terrified to begin. 

“The Ash Folk, my people,” he pauses, the words tasting so unfamiliar in his mouth. She grasps his hand once more, encouraging him to go on. “My people,” he repeats, “have seldom known peace. My father lived through a great purge in his youth, forced from his home as those he loved died around him. I suppose it was pessimistic of him, but he anticipated such a future for us, even in this new home. They would never stop trying to drive us away, he’d said. We’re different, and they fear us. They fear what we can do.” Lancelot stops, bitterness creeping in. “He was right about that.”

He looks down, her thumb tracing delicate circles about the skin of his wrist. It’s the most tender touch he’s experienced in years. And she does it absently. Anger momentarily put aside, he continues.

“From a young age I had these feelings, this connectedness. Mostly, that meant I was good at hunting. And fishing,” he adds, though it feels unnecessary. “My father saw the potential of this gift and trained me to access the Hidden as if it were second nature. I strengthened my ties to the Fey, my father determined that sensing my own would be a skill I’d need when our enemies came for us again. A way to always return home, regardless of where that home was.” He smiles at that, despite what comes next.

“They came at night as we slept. They wiped out most of the village. Few of us escaped, fled into the darkness. We ran for days, certain we could escape this evil if we simply went far enough.” He laughs at that, knowing now just how foolish that hope had been. “Eventually, we stumbled upon a Fey village. River Folk. We lived there at peace for a while. Life almost started to feel normal again, until one day, I returned from a hunt to find the village in chaos, haunting screams from my neighbors nailed to burning crosses.”

Nimue has a flash of a memory, hiding petrified as the dark rider kneeled before the man in red who directed the slaughter of her people.

“I looked for my parents, as any scared child would.” She remembers desperately seeking her mother, afraid she’d get there too late.

“When I couldn’t find them in the village, I took to the earth, to the trees, begging for some sign of them.” He pauses, darkness in his eyes. “I learned later that Carden saw me, followed me.” The bitterness returns. “I led him right to them. He killed them in front of me, my father, my mother.”

She can sense the anger he’s long buried, begging to come to the surface. “But not me. Not after he’d seen what I could do. ‘You’ll be our greatest weapon, son,’ he said, standing over the still warm body of my father.”

“They took me, broke me, trained me. Carden twisted my mind until the monks were my brothers, and the Fey my enemies. I cut them down, burning, hacking, desperate to please the God of my Father, my God.” He smiles, darkly. “The sick thing is, I still believe in Him.” 

Nimue looks concerned, wondering how he could believe in a God so cruel. He clarifies. “I always had trouble reconciling the loving, merciful God of the Scriptures, with the dark, vengeful God Carden extolled. And when I questioned God’s justice, well…” 

“The scars on your back?” 

He looks up at her in surprise, then remembers that morning at the creek. “Brother Salt would scourge the doubt from me. Often, I was desperate to purge it myself, to ease the conflict that boiled my blood.”

Her heart is broken for the man beside her, at the pain he’s known his entire life. His story does not excuse the atrocities of his past, but it helps to explain, helps her understand how someone could do what he had done.

“You saved Squirrel,” she says, though they had already discussed that. 

Lancelot smirks at the mention of the boy. “He reminded me of myself at that age, the fight in him. I couldn’t bear to see him in the hands of Brother Salt, especially after what he’d done to the Green Knight.” Lancelot hesitates, not sure he should continue. 

“Gawain,” Nimue whispers, the memory of his body laying lifeless before her cutting like a knife.

“Gawain,” Lancelot tries out, honoring the man who had challenged him, called him out on his prideful, meaningless morality. “He was tortured within an inch of his life, and still he did not betray what he knew me to be.”

“That was Gawain,” Nimue says, tears escaping, “honorable to a fault.”

“He called me brother. Told me I could be the Fey’s greatest warrior. I disdained him in that moment, but it turned out to be precisely what I needed to hear.”

The relief he feels upon voicing his experiences is like a rush of air through starved lungs. He’s positive she’s bewitched him. It’s the only explanation for why he's told her things he’d barely allowed himself to keep as memories. He looks to her again, worried what she’ll say, how she’ll react after hearing it all.

She says nothing, but moves closer, wrapping her arms around him, her tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt, into his skin. He _feels_ her, the familiar flood of water drowning his senses, and he’s home.


	6. Chapter 6

Nimue awakens, her spine stiff, but her body warm. She looks down to find her legs entangled with Lancelot’s, her head resting on his chest, as her arms cling to his middle. It feels strangely intimate, but despite the ache in her back, she’s not sure she’s ever been more comfortable. Banishing the thought, she extricates herself carefully, desperate for some space and some time alone to consider his words from the day before.

She could hardly think of him as a monster anymore, not now that she knew the torture he’d endured at Father Carden’s hand. At the same time, it was not as though his admittedly tragic history absolved him of his heinous deeds.

Where did that leave them, then? Perhaps she could forgive, but she doubts she could ever forget. She’s reminded of Gawain’s belief in him, even as he courted death. It was then she decided; she would trust him, encourage him to be the better man that Gawain envisioned so readily. Help him find his way and save their people. 

She hears whispers, feels the air stir around her, the Hidden confirming that somehow, this is part of her destiny. Assured, she returns to where she’d left Lancelot, asleep under the tree’s protection.

He’s awake now, leaning on the trunk, legs sprawled out in front of him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you,” she starts, unsure how to talk to him after she’d woken up entwined with him.

“I wasn’t worried.” Before she can get offended, he adds, “I could sense you near.”

“That must be nice, not having to fear…”

“Yeah, it’s great that this power can be used for more than just killing innocents.” She’s surprised at how easily he jokes about it, but understands his skepticism toward his gift. It’s something she’s felt in abundance since she was a girl.

“What do I feel like, to you?” Nimue asks, curious. 

Lancelot seems confused, but a moment later, understanding strikes. “Like water,” he says, “rushing over my skin, filling up my lungs.”

She blushes at the imagery. 

“I felt you that night,” he continues, “in a dream. I was drowning. I didn’t understand it at first, but then I woke and there you were, lungs full of water, as I had dreamed my own to be.”

She’s struck by his admission, remembering the moment in the Cailleach’s cavern, when she’d seen his face in the flames. She tells him as much. 

He smiles, grimly, “That seems about right.”

“Fire and water,” she states, then shakes her head, clearing it of any ridiculous symbolism that had been taking form. “Shall we continue of the monk’s trail?”

He nods, rising from his perch, and moves to the last place he had felt the zealot. The trees indicate a clear path forward and Lancelot bids Nimue follow. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

They come upon the Paladin camp later that day, both disturbed the enemy had been so close this entire time, and they’d been unaware. They make a wide loop around the camp, staying far enough away from the perimeter to avoid detection. Confident there are no other threats in the area, Lancelot and Nimue hide themselves, waiting for night to fall.

Meanwhile, they discuss their strategy; she finds Lancelot has a flair for the dramatic, and she’s not sure why that surprises her. He suggests that once the camp is quiet, save for the sentries, they string up crosses at the camp’s perimeter and set them ablaze. When the Paladins are waking, distracted, they’ll swoop in, killing them all before they even understand what’s happened. 

“And you’re sure you can kill these men, your brothers?” Nimue asks. She trusts him, but recognizes how this could be difficult for him. 

“Not my brothers,” Lancelot corrects, firmly. “I won’t relish killing them, but I understand the reality of the situation. Left alive, they will not hesitate to kill every single one of us. Children included.” He swallows back bile at the thought.

She nods, assured of his resolve.

They wait in silence for a long while, but it’s comfortable, peaceful, insomuch as lying in wait to murder dozens can be.

“I killed him,” Nimue says, out of nowhere. 

With no context, Lancelot knows exactly of whom she speaks. His face is devoid of any emotion, his voice equally so. “How?”

His eerie emotionlessness would be more disturbing had he not told her of all the ways he had suffered because of the man. 

“I relieved him of his head,” she states simply, darkly.

He smirks at her manner of description, but does not offer any celebration or relief upon hearing it.

“Are you not glad for it? Nimue asks, curious. 

“I am,” he says with conviction. He pauses, pensive. “I don’t mourn his loss, by any means, but he was the only person to show me any semblance of love, twisted as it was, from childhood until I grew into a man.”

“Not anymore,” she says, reaching for his hand in what is swiftly approaching a habit.

He looks at her, slightly bewildered, but they speak no more about it.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

As darkness falls, they prepare the crosses. Lancelot struggles with two large limbs, trying to piece them together in one form. “Perhaps I should have planned better for this,” Lancelot says, eyes narrowing in thinly veiled frustration. 

Nimue closes her eyes, calling out to the Hidden, intent clear. Lancelot looks up and sees a brush of green running from her temples to her jaw, hints of pink speckled within. Before he can even raise a question, vines are bursting from the ground, entwining around the limbs, forming the proper shape. The tendrils disperse, and the marks disappear from her face, almost as suddenly as they had appeared.

Where once it would have been a mark of sorcery, an indication of a demon presence, now, it was nothing short of miraculous. He’s looking at her incredulously, as if he doesn’t believe what his eyes have seen. It was one thing to see it after the fact, his brother strung up, brutalized; seeing her wield such power in the flesh was incredible. 

“What—”

“My curse,” Nimue says with a shrug. 

“Nimue, that’s—”

“A story for another time,” she cuts him off, echoing his words from the day before. 

He nods, letting it go, and they set about assembling the other crosses. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Crosses alight, Nimue and Lancelot steal toward the Paladin camp, waiting for the sentry to take the bait. He does, standing, moving closer to investigate. “Fire!” He cries out, ringing a bell to alert the others. Red men pour from their tents like blood from a wound. 

Lancelot gives Nimue a nod before he sprints out of the trees, after the frantic Paladins. With a deep breath, Nimue follows him, calling on the Sword, on the Hidden for strength. She cuts men down easily, the Sword her strength, though her skill has certainly improved under Lancelot’s tutelage. 

Lancelot kills as if it were a game, his enemies little more than unworthy opponents. It’s horrifying, terrible to witness, but she takes comfort in the fact that he’s fighting for her. With her. Knowing this, she’s all confidence, leaving a trail of blood behind her as she slays Paladin after Paladin.

After what feels like hours of bloodshed, but couldn’t have been more than mere moments, Nimue seeks out Lancelot, drained. She sees him locked in combat with the lone surviving Monk. The man stabs at Lancelot, a blow he artfully dodges with a spin and a flip, mid-air. The man’s throat is cut before Lancelot’s feet return to the ground.

It was like poetry, the way he moved. The man’s body hit the ground seconds later, his blood staining the earth a glorious red. She felt wrong, dirty, for admiring the way he killed, but she couldn’t help it. 

He gives her a strange look, and she realizes she’s staring at him, mouth agape. She closes her mouth, embarrassed.

“Let’s get out of here. Clean up, make camp for the night.” She nods, not trusting herself to speak. 

She follows him through the camp as he heads back the way they came. They walk in silence, but Nimue is in no way comfortable. What had she been thinking, staring at him like that? He likely thought her deranged, if he hadn’t already. 

He stops before a stream, wiping the blood from his blade on his shirt before removing the article altogether. As she splashes water on her face and scrubs blood from her arms, she sees him wring the watery blood from his shirt. She’s struck anew with admiration for him, although her admiration has little to do with his prowess in combat. She watches, transfixed as the muscles in his stomach contract and release as he moves, bruises not much more than a memory. Blood mixed with ashen tears cross his face, and still, he is…beautiful. Nimue feels guilty even thinking it. 

Lancelot clears his throat and Nimue realizes, mortified, that she’s been caught staring, again. “You should, uh, clean the blood from your sword before it dries. It’s a pain to remove, then.” He speaks softly, carefully, as if trying not to scare her, which makes no sense, but she nods, doing as he had suggested.


	7. Chapter 7

Lancelot notices her staring at him, mouth agape, and he’s certain she’s seeing the monster again. Thinking they had progressed beyond that, he’s hurt, but he’s careful not to give any indication. 

Then, not an hour later, when they’re rinsing the Paladin blood away, he finds her staring again. He speaks carefully, gently, not wanting to frighten her any further when he suggests she clean her sword. She nods, timidly, and does as he says, without a word. 

He sighs, undoing the tie in his hair before submerging his head in the water, a baptism. He scrubs his face nearly raw, desperate to get rid of the blood that marks him as a being of destruction. Lancelot knows this is different, but after seeing her stare in horror, he’s not sure he can be anything else.

Cleansed, Lancelot wrings the water from his hair, throwing the wet shirt over his shoulder. He meets Nimue on the stream’s bank; she’s pointedly not looking at him, and somehow, that’s more disappointing than the stares of abject horror. 

“There was a cave we passed on our way to their camp,” he nods in that direction. “It’ll make good shelter for the night.” 

She wordlessly marks her agreement, and so he sets off for the cave. Nimue follows behind him at a distance, as if she’s worried his violence will stretch out to her the first chance he gets. He knows he deserves this reaction; once, when she was nothing more than prey to him, he wouldn’t have hesitated to end her life with a single stroke. He hates that he lives on in her mind that way, a man not suited for anything but killing. 

He doesn’t speak, not wanting to further frighten her. They come wordlessly upon the cave, and he drops his still wet shirt on the stone. She startles at the slapping sound, then lays down her sword more gently. 

“I’ll build a fire.” He leaves the mouth of the cave before she can respond. 

Lancelot doesn’t go far. He doesn’t need to. There’s kindling aplenty just outside the cave. Not eager to return, he takes his time picking up twigs and leaves. His mind seems to hold on to a single thought, returning to it, again and again. _She knew what I was._ He supposes knowing and seeing are two different things, and upon seeing what she knew to be true, the picture he’d attempted to build to stand in its place had been shattered. He couldn’t be kind, or noble. All he could do was kill.

He returns to their shelter, a bitter hopelessness trying to take root. Lighting the fire, Lancelot moves his discarded shirt closer to the flames to aid in its drying. He feels bare enough before her as it is. 

She stands opposite him, gaze bent on the fire’s glow. Figuring he might as well confirm his suspicion, he asks what he’s been dying to know.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

“Are you afraid of me?” It’s so quiet she almost doesn’t hear it.

She looks at him through the flames, the light washing his features in warmth. “What?”

“Are you afraid of me?” He repeats, taking a step toward her, then thinking better of it. “The way you looked at me after…” he trails off, not wanting to mention what he’s sure is currently haunting her thoughts.

Nimue sighs, relieved. Not that he thought her afraid of him, but that he seemed unaware of her guilty admiration. This, at least, is an issue she can resolve easily. “No.” It’s simple, but firm. 

He does not seem to believe her. “I fear there’s nothing left of me but a skill for violence.”

It’s evident the thought’s been holding him captive all evening, and Nimue regrets that she had played some part in that. She closes the distance between them, steps slow, purposeful. “I see more than that.” She brings a hand up to his cheek, following the ashen marks beneath his eye, hesitantly, gently. He recoils at the contact, and she drops her hand instantly, fearing she’d gone too far. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s…I’m sorry.” He laughs, nervously, the sound echoing softly around them. “It’s just I don’t remember the last time I was touched with kindness.” His eyes are soft, forgiving. “You caught me off guard, is all.”

“You, off guard?” Nimue teases. “It must be the end of days.”

“You would not be with me at the end of days,” he scoffs, and she knows he’s thinking of hell, of damnation.

She keeps it light. “Well, you do bring out the worst in me…”

There’s just a hint of a smile at her dark implication. “And you, the best in me. It seems we are at an impasse.” His words are playful, but she sees the heart behind them. 

“I’m confident we’ll figure it out before the end.” He’s entwined with her destiny now, for better or worse. _Better,_ she determines.

His answering smile is boyish and charming, and Nimue nearly forgets herself. She wraps her arms around him, as if clinging to him for life. He’s hesitant, at first, stiff in her arms. 

Before she can reconsider her blunder, she feels a hand on her back, trying to find its place, uncertain it belongs there. She remembers what he’d said earlier; aside from the day before, he likely hadn’t been hugged since he was a small child. She holds him tighter, encouraging him, seeking to fill a lifetime of withheld affection in the span of a single embrace.

His grip tightens, but his hands are gentle as they traverse the scars hidden on her back. It sends a chill through her, the thought of him seeing those scars. She feels connected to him through her scars; he’s cursed, as she is. But it feels less like a curse, with him, and more a celebration of the magic that flows through her veins. A fact of life. Acceptance.

Nimue lets herself just be, to simply exist in that moment. There is no threat to counteract, no plan to be made, only her head on his chest, feeling his heart beat. She thinks that this must be what home feels like.

In her embrace, Lancelot lets himself hope for the future.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot, if you squint.

They return to camp the next day. Nimue is eager to share their victory over the Paladins and the strategies she’d been entertaining as she and Lancelot made the trek back to camp.

She’s certain her friends will be relieved to hear they had crushed a Paladin threat so close to their borders. And maybe also that Lancelot had proven so useful, loyal to their cause. It’s important to her that the others see in him what she does, although she doubts this will convince them. 

Nimue finds Arthur with the council, alongside the Red Spear and her Viking contingent, map laid out on a make-shift table, a lone figure marking known enemy positions. She strides over to the table’s side, making her presence known, Lancelot not far behind. 

Arthur looks relieved to see her back, safe, but she doesn’t miss the way his gaze flickers briefly to Lancelot behind her, his smile dissipating at the faint trace of blood staining the man’s shirt. 

“How many died at your hands this time?” Arthur directs at Lancelot. 

“About two dozen, give or take,” Lancelot replies, monotonously. 

Arthur raises his eyebrows, alarmed. 

_“We,”_ Nimue emphasizes her part in it, “happened upon a Paladin camp, not two days north of here. We eliminated the threat,” she says, as if that’s all that needs to be said on the matter. 

“And this was his idea?” He inclines his chin toward Lancelot. 

“It was a good one,” the Red Spear states, before Nimue can respond. “The fewer of them we have to worry about, the more attention we can focus on Cumber,” her eyes narrow, nothing short of bloodthirsty. Murmurs of assent rise from her people, and Arthur does not offer a word of argument. 

Arthur’s attention focused away from Lancelot, Nimue continues to talk strategy. “We should send out small parties in all directions, to ensure no other surprises lie in wait.”

The Red Spear agrees, volunteering a few men to scout to the south. Kaze claims the west for her clan. That just leaves the east, toward the sea. 

“I’ll go,” Lancelot volunteers. 

“You can’t go alone,” Nimue protests, about to volunteer herself as well. 

“I’ll go with him.” It’s Arthur who speaks. 

Pushing aside surprise and more than a little disappointment, Nimue speaks. “Very well. You’ll leave in the morning.” 

The matter settled, her advisors start filtering out of the tent. Soon only Nimue, Arthur, and Lancelot remain. “We’ll meet here at first light tomorrow,” Arthur says, hardly looking in the man’s direction. Lancelot nods, but seems as if he’s waiting for something else. “You can leave now,” Arthur informs him, quite rudely. 

Without a word, Lancelot exits the tent, leaving Arthur and Nimue alone. “You did not have to be so rude,” Nimue scolds.

“What? Is he your friend now?” Arthur’s tone suggests just how ridiculous such a thing would be.

“Something like that.” 

His humor is gone in an instant. 

“Something like that?”

“Gawain believed he could be a good man. I’m going to give him that chance. Will you?”

He doesn’t answer her. “And here I thought you were too smart to be seduced by him.” This time, his disdain seems to extend to her. 

Affronted by his implication, his tone, Nimue glares at him. “He’s endured far worse than your childish insults, so keep it up, if you must, but I thought you bigger than that.”

She leaves him then, to wallow alone in doubt about his precious honor. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot finds Percival with the other children, assembling arrows. The boy brightens at his appearance. “You’re back!”

“For tonight. I leave tomorrow with Arthur to scout to the east.”

“Can I come?” The boy asks, excitedly. 

“Who will hold down the fort in my absence?” Lancelot teases, not wanting to injure the boy’s pride with a refusal.

Percival nods, reluctantly, accepting his responsibility.

“We’ll spar when I return,” Lancelot offers, and Percival’s toothy grin is back in a flash.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue can’t return to her tent after the words she’d exchanged with Arthur, so she seeks out Pym instead, desperate for the comfort of familiarity their friendship offers. She finds her in the healer’s tent, bandaging a wound on a Viking soldier’s arm. Pym looks up from her work, noticing Nimue’s presence. “It’s healing, Hagrid. Stop touching it,” she chides the older man, authoritatively. Squeamish Pym was a healer, unperturbed by the sight of blood and torn flesh. Nimue marvels at the thought. She supposes neither of them are same girls they had been a short time ago. 

The man stands, voicing his thanks, and leaves Pym to Nimue. “What brings you here?”

“Can’t I come see my oldest friend without an ulterior motive?” Nimue asks, raising an eyebrow in jest.

“A year ago, maybe. Now…” Pym trails off, not needing to explain how things had changed.

A year ago, Nimue had been an outcast in her village, despised, feared. She had been desperate to escape, to find some place she could belong. Now, she was the symbol of defiance, of revolution. She was the Wolf Blood Witch, an almighty sorceress who would defend her people in the clash of kings. 

“I’m having trouble with men,” Nimue blurts. It sounds so foolish with everything else that is going on, but she needs another mind to help her think through this. Something strange passes over Pym’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. Of course. “Oh, Pym, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“Nimue, it’s okay. I just wish I could share about something stupid Dof had done,” she laughs, a faraway look in her eyes. Nimue’s heart aches at this loss, on top of all the others, that her friend had experienced. 

“I wish I could have saved him,” Nimue whispers, remembering Pym frantically, desperately begging. 

Pym fiddles with the medallion around her neck, “I know you tried, Nimue. I don’t blame you.” There’s no hint of deception, of appeasement in her voice, and Nimue lets the guilt go with a breath, absolved. 

“So, tell me,” Pym prods, eagerly, “what has Arthur done?”

The weight gone, Nimue gossips with Pym as they had many a time before in their youth. 

“He refuses to treat Lancelot with even an ounce of kindness, despite the fact that he saved my life and has proven his loyalty to us.”

“Lancelot?” Pym quirks a brow in confusion. Nimue sees when recognition strikes. “Oh, you mean the broody Monk?”

Nimue smirks at Pym’s description of him. She’s not wrong. “Yes.”

“Why does that bother you?”

“He’s an ally; he should be treated as one,” Nimue explains, as if it’s nothing more than logical. Her eyes must betray her.

“Nothing more than that?” Pym inquires, innocently. 

“No,” Nimue says, and she can tell Pym does not believe her. She certainly does not believe herself. She hesitates before continuing, “He’s just…he’s different than I expected.” It’s a severe understatement, but she hopes it will be enough to satisfy Pym’s curiosity. 

“How so?” 

No such luck. “I thought I’d have to push aside disgust in order to even stand in his presence, but he’s…he’s kind, and gentle.” She shrugs, as if accepting defeat. “I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“You like him.” It’s not a question.

Nimue does not want to admit it. It’ll become real, takes on a life of its own if she says the words aloud. “He’s a good friend to have,” she says instead, weaseling her way out of a more meaningful confession. 

“That all?” Pym gives her a knowing look. 

“That’s all it can be.” Nimue speaks the words firmly, as though her declaration can stop the conflict in her mind, in her heart.

Pym grasps Nimue’s hand, squeezing tightly in wordless comfort. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur fully intends to spend two days with the Monk without saying a single word. His companion seems perfectly amenable to the idea. They depart toward the sea, where the sun is rising, crimson in the sky. 

He studies the man carefully as he trails behind him, the way his hands brush over bark and leaves. He sees the flash of green on the Monk’s skin at the contact. Nimue’s vague words about what the man had endured in his past come to mind. “How does a Fey such as yourself come to be a raging genocidal maniac?” Arthur asks the man.

The Monk stops. “Listen, I understand how you feel about me. It makes sense. You don’t have to make it evident with every sentence you speak to me.

That’s probably true, but Arthur can’t seem to quell the animosity. “It was a simple question.”

He continues walking, and Arthur is certain he will not answer. They go a few miles before he hears the Monk speak, hesitantly at first. “They killed my parents in front of me, because of me.” Arthur feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. It’s not what he’d expected. He supposes he expected something less…human. “They tortured me, trained me, until it was in my very being to want to kill those like me.” The man speaks dispassionately, as if he’s not addressing traumatic memories.

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Arthur demands, but it lacks his typical bite.

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” Lancelot meets his eye, unaffected.

A long moment of silence passes between them. Lancelot is certain the conversation is over.

“Look, I am sorry you had to experience that. Children should not have to bear such things.”

“You speak from experience?” Lancelot intuits. 

“Let’s just say I had to learn to take care of myself at a young age. I understand something about the weight of impossible expectations.” 

Lancelot nods, not wanting to push their tenuous truce any further.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The camp feels quiet. It reminds Nimue of the day she’d given herself over to Uther. She’d felt little more than a terrified girl, standing before a room full of imposing men, all seeking to take something from her. Her sword. Her life. 

_Your sword?_ She remembers Uther’s disbelief, disdain at the way she had claimed to Devil’s Tooth. It belonged to her people, after all. It was more than a prop to determine the rightful king of men. 

The Sword’s wielder was the prop. She knew that intimately, being influenced to rashness to irrationality, to violence with the sword in her hand. The Hidden must see a strength in her she cannot feel in herself to burden her with such a responsibility. Queen of the Fey, keeper of the blade.

She’s reminded of Merlin’s memories, of his power so tied to this mysterious sword. Closing her eyes, she clears her mind, drawing on her connection to her father. She feels a jolt, and then he’s there, in her mind’s eye. 

“Daughter?” She finds comfort in the familiar address. “Are you alright?”

She nearly asks about the sword, its burden, its curse, but she can’t bring herself to do it. She can’t allow herself the weakness.

“Any developments with Uther?” She asks, all business. 

Merlin seems to know she’s hiding something under the surface, but he respects her need to keep it contained. “He’s plotting,” Merlin says, slightly troubled. “He realizes he’s outnumbered, so he’s allied himself with mercenaries from the north, led by a man named Mordred.” 

Nimue nods, absorbing the information. “And will he stand with us against Cumber, the Church?”

Merlin chuckles, darkly. “At the moment, he seems more inclined to crush the Pendragon’s claim himself and then turn his forces on you. You made quite an impression on him, it seems, leaving Carden’s head behind and robbing him of my death.” He seems almost proud. 

“How’s that going, anyway? Living with the man who tried to have you killed?” She knows he’s more than capable of taking care of himself, yet she still worries for his safety. 

Merlin is thoughtful for a moment before he responds. “Uther and I have grown a lot together over the years.” He smirks, “besides, what’s a little murder between friends?”

Nimue laughs, the unexpected joke resonating. What a strange life they lived. 

“In all seriousness, I’ll continue to work on Uther, see if I can make him more amenable to a truce with us.” 

Her heart warms at the way he claims his people so easily. “Stay safe, father.”

“You too, little one.” She relishes the affection she had so longed for as a child, late as it was.

Their connection severed, Nimue keeps her eyes closed, clinging to the peace it had brought. When thoughts of certain men and a scouting mission come to mind, Nimue opens her eyes in frustration. She flees her tent, as though the action will purge the unwanted thoughts from her mind. 

She wanders aimlessly among the trees, hands brushing bark and leaves alike. The movement reminds her of Lancelot, of how they had become one with the tree he’d touched. It seems he’s inescapable. She stares at her own hand, her skin a stark contrast to the bark beneath it. 

She remembers his look of wonder as she had manipulated the vines, a reflection of the way she’d marveled at his own display. Nimue likes the idea that someone could look upon her and her…gift, with something other than disgust and fear. She thinks maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to share in her humanity with Lancelot, to be understood by him. Nimue falls asleep amongst the trees, as dreams of ice blue eyes and flames flood her mind.


	9. Chapter 9

The parties returned that day. The Vikings come back in the late morning, no threats to report to the south. Kaze and her women return a few hours later, Fey refugees in tow, having come across a village the men in red had ransacked before heading further west. 

Hours pass, and still there’s no sign of Arthur and Lancelot. She tells herself not to worry, knowing each man is more than capable of handling himself in combat. Somehow, that’s not the encouragement she means it to be, a new string of worries centering around one or both of their deaths arising. She calls to the Hidden for peace, but it evades her. 

Finally, as the sun is setting, Arthur and Lancelot appear through the trees, both unharmed and with less palpable hostility than she’d anticipated. They have little to report, save for some ships they’d seen sailing along the coast toward Pendragon’s keep. 

Nimue considers that, wondering if it’s Cumber’s men, or the forces the man Merlin called Mordred had promised to Uther. Either way, it appeared they were safe from any imminent threats. She could rest easy for the time being, at least from outside attacks. 

Arthur nods at Lancelot before moving to join the Red Spear who sits with a group around a fire nearby. 

“Sounds like it went well,” Nimue observes, her gaze following Arthur. 

“Better than expected,” Lancelot replies, easily. 

She looks at him then, relieved that none of the scenarios she’d played out in her head had come to pass. “I’m glad for it.”

He offers a shy smile in return before heading off in search of Squirrel. 

Exhausted from a day spent in a near constant state of anxiety, Nimue returns to her tent, curious if Arthur will follow. She’s almost asleep when she feels him lay down beside her. For a moment, she doesn’t think he’ll say anything. 

“I’m sorry, Nimue,” he whispers, his hand settling atop her arm as she remains on her side, turned away from him. “I just want you to be safe and I thought he was a threat. I apologize for being cruel.” Arthur pauses, letting out a long breath. “If you trust him, so do I.”

Nimue rolls over at that. “He’s no threat to you.” In regard to violence, she had no doubt this was true. Concerning her affections…that might be another story.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Percival finds him first thing in the morning, eager to get their lessons underway. Lancelot fights back a laugh as the boy shakes him from his slumber, urging him to get up. He rises, a yawn escaping. “How do you even have this much energy so early in the morning?” Lancelot complains, good-naturedly. 

Percival grabs hold of Lancelot’s sword, and its size dwarfs him. Lancelot has to bite back a laugh as they head to the clearing. 

Yawning again, Lancelot picks up two sticks, perfect for sparring. “We’ll start with these,” Lancelot says, throwing one in the boy’s direction. 

Percival huffs, disappointed, but he catches the stick. “When will we get to fight with real swords?” The boy asks, desperate for something more exciting. 

“Patience, little one,” Lancelot chuckles, as he prepares to advance.

Percival scowls at the moniker, likely balking at the thought of being treated as a child. He remembers how he had hated that. Right. 

Before the boy can retort, Lancelot begins his instruction. “Today, we focus on footwork.” Lancelot assumes a ready stance, feet shoulder-width apart, his right leading his left. “It’s good to be strong,” Lancelot says, meeting Percival’s eye, “but, it’s better to be quick.” In a flash, he’s shifted his feet and stolen the stave from the boy’s hand, all while maintaining eye contact. 

Percival looks down to find himself disarmed. He reaches out for the stick, eager to continue learning. Lancelot returns the make-shift sword to the boy and raises his own, angled out in front of him. “We’ll start slowly.” Percival doesn’t protest this time. “When I advance, you want to move in the smartest way, the way that protects your own advantage.” The boy nods. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” Lancelot smirks, swinging the stave in a flourish. 

He advances, a single step. The boy mirrors his step, his stick up in a perfect defense. “Good,” Lancelot encourages. “Don’t let me force you on the defensive.” He steps again, quicker this time. Percival responds, stepping to his left. 

Lancelot continues to test the boy’s steps, moving in various combinations. He reacts well, but he has a habit of looking down a bit too often, which Lancelot discourages by prodding him on the chin with the edge of his stick. The boy harrumphs, but he raises his eyes, so Lancelot considers it a victory.

When the boy’s arm starts to droop, Lancelot decides they’ve done enough for one day. Percival protests, wanting to master everything today. “It was a good start, Percival. We’ll make a knight of you yet,” Lancelot promises, a twinkle in his eye.

The boy’s eyes dim, and Lancelot wonders what he’s done. Then, he remembers the nature of their second meeting. The boy had followed the Green Knight to their camp, unbeknownst to him.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Lancelot whispers, finding it much more difficult apologizing to this boy than to Nimue. “The Green Knight was a good man.” His words feel awkward, insufficient for what was taken from the boy. 

The boy is silent for a beat, and Lancelot is certain that the memory of his cruelty will replace the goodwill saving the boy had fostered. 

“The Green Knight was supposed to train me,” the boy starts, almost sadly, before his face straightens. “I suppose you’ll have to do that in his stead.”

Lancelot knows he won’t ever be able to replace Gawain, but he owes Percival at least this much. “I would be honored,” Lancelot promises. 

They sit in silence for a while, Lancelot not wanting to continue discussing such heavy topics. Perhaps, he’s selfish in that, wanting to spare himself the pain, but the boy does not seem to mind.

“What will you do today?” Lancelot asks Percival. 

The boy shrugs. “Play with my friends, probably. Maybe build some more arrows.” He looks over at Lancelot. “What will you do?”

Lancelot thinks. “Well, I suppose I will sharpen my sword, perhaps go for a hunt.”

“That’s boring,” Percival declares. “You need friends.”

Lancelot cannot help the bark of laughter that escapes at Percival’s declaration. Everything was so simple in the mind of a child. “Are you trying to say that we’re not friends?” Lancelot asks, playing at offense. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Percival says with a roll of his eyes. “I mean, you need friends your own age.” The boy speaks as though his meaning should have been clear the first time.

“Unfortunately,” Lancelot drawls, “people here are too afraid to want to befriend me.” He shrugs, an almost convincing display of indifference. 

“What about Nimue?” The boy questions. “People in our village used to fear her, too. She would be a good friend for you.”

Lancelot ignores the way his heartbeat quickens at the mention of her name. “Why did they fear her?”

“She was attacked by a dark spirit. They thought her a witch. None of the children wanted to play with her and everyone was always so mean. I didn’t care about any of that; she was always nice to me.” The boy ends his tale there, but Lancelot is desperate to know more, clinging to yet another similarity between himself and Nimue. 

“You should ask Nimue to be your friend,” Percival suggests, as if that is a thing that adults do. “In fact, let’s go, right now!” Eager, the boy pulls at his arm, trying to get him to stand. 

“Right now?” Lancelot asks, not sold on the boy’s plan. 

“Right now,” Percival states, dragging him back toward camp. 

Lancelot lets Percival lead him about until they find Nimue, talking to her slight, red-haired friend. “Nimue, Lancelot has something he wants to ask you!” The boy exclaims, interrupting. She shares a look with her friend and then her attention is fixed on him. She inclines her head, waiting. 

“Percival wanted me to ask you…” He feels the jab of a small elbow in his gut. “I wanted to know,” he corrects, “if you would want to be my friend?” His cheeks heat, embarrassed to be asking such a ridiculous question. He hears the girl beside Nimue—Pym, he thinks—laugh, and he looks down, determined never to follow Percival’s advice about friendship again.

“I’d be delighted, Lancelot,” Nimue says, and the smile she gives him makes the embarrassment worth it. 

He smiles, too, like an idiot, because how does a grown man have this type of conversation? Percival looks at him as if he’s hopeless. Grabbing him by the arm once more, Percival nods to Nimue and Pym. “Carry on, ladies.” At that, he’s being dragged away by the boy half his size. 

“You really need to work on that if you want to make more friends,” Percival says, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Lancelot doesn’t say anything, just ruffles the boy’s hair as he’s dragged away from his new friend.


	10. Chapter 10

“All I’m saying, Uther,” Merlin draws the words out as he plucks a fig from the ornate tray before him, “is that the Fey can be of some use to you.” He paces, listlessly. Trying to influence Uther lately was like herding sheep with a goat.

“Maybe.” The word falls off Uther’s tongue, a deliberation. “But, we’re thinking that Carden had the right idea, killing that, what did he call her again? Wolf Blood Witch?” His face creases in evident distaste of the moniker. 

“Do not be so hasty to make an enemy of the Fey Queen,” Merlin warns Uther, his eyes darkening.

“We, make an enemy of her?” Uther demands, affronted. “The girl who took advantage of our more than generous assistance and denied us the Sword of Power? What is this girl to you, anyway?” Uther inquires, suspicious. “All these years, you’ve never cared about the plight of the Fey. Why now?”

Merlin is saved from having to answer by the announcement of an arrival. Mordred was here. The man stalks in, tall and lean, much like Merlin, but for the shock of hair atop his head, black as coal. His eyes match, serpentine in their perusal of the room, sizing up the men before him.

“My liege,” he bows before Uther, the movement shallow. “And you must be the legendary Merlin.” He turns to survey the man at Uther’s side. “I’ve heard a great many stories about you.”

“Forgive me, but I’m afraid I cannot say the same. I’ve only heard whispers of a man who helps supplant rightful kings.” Merlin shrugs, innocuously.

“Rightful,” Mordred counters, his lips lingering around the word, “is simply a matter of opinion.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Eydis sits beside her father, restless. It had been weeks since a diminished force had returned, recounting the rally of the Fey, aided by men Cumber had exiled. Since her sister’s head had been dropped at her feet, a message, a threat from the Spear.

And now, they were hearing rumors of Mordred sending troops to support the false king. Mordred, who was more of a ghost story, than a man, supporting rebellions throughout the northern kingdoms. She stabs a knife into the table, angry at being outplayed, at being forced to sit back and wait.

A man approaches, and she’s certain he bears more bad news. “My King,” the man begins, bowing deferentially. “I bring news from the Paladin camp in the south.” Cumber motions for the man to continue. “They were massacred. In their sleep, by the looks of it.” 

Eydis swears, certain this is the work of the Spear and her allies. “Is that all?” Cumber asks, ready to dismiss this bearer of bad news. 

The man hesitates before offering one final tidbit. “Some of the bodies had strange markings, like those Father Carden said the Devil’s Tooth would make.” 

Cumber dismisses the man with a lazy wave of his hand. “It would seem that not only is the Witch still alive, but she continues to wield the Sword, as well.” His eyes narrow, “Rome owes me for this failure.” He places a hand on Eydis’ shoulder. “Go daughter. Remind them what should happen if they fail me again.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

“Nimue!” Squirrel runs up to her, tugging on the sleeve of her dress. “Come play with us!”

“And what game are we playing?” Nimue asks, looking upon the group of children…and, Lancelot huddled together a few feet away.

“Hide and seek!” The boy is positively bounding with excitement, and before she can say yes, she’s being dragged over to the group. “You can be seeker this round; Lancelot is too good!” The boy complains. “The game was over too quickly.” Nimue smiles at Lancelot, conspiratorially, knowing precisely why he excelled at the game. He smirks.

“Alright, I’ll count to one hundred.” She closes her eyes and starts counting aloud. “You better be finding a good hiding place,” she sing-songs, hearing childish laughter and the scampering of feet.

When she’s reached one hundred, she opens her eyes. She’s alone. 

She makes her way through trees and tents, uncovering a few children after moments of searching. _So this is what it feels like to play, to be included._ Perhaps it was never too late in life for some things, even if they had always seemed so unattainable. 

Nimue giggles, finding Squirrel hidden high up in a tree, clinging to a limb like his rodent namesake. “Be careful coming down from there,” she warns.

“Yeah, yeah,” Squirrel grumbles, sliding down the trunk with ease. “Have you found Lancelot, yet?” 

“I haven’t,” Nimue answers. “Will you help me?” Squirrel nods, no doubt eager to finish the round so he can hide again. They search high and low, but there is no hint of him. Nimue is certain he’s hiding in plain sight.

As time ticks by, Lancelot still hidden, Squirrel grows frustrated. “Just come out, Lancelot, you’ve won!” The boy begs, exasperated.

Nimue laughs at the irony of his gift—with it, he excels at killing and children’s games.

“What are you laughing at?” Squirrel demands.

“I am sure you’ll see, momentarily.”

Sure enough, Lancelot appears where there had only been a tree before. Squirrel stares at him in disbelief, the other children gathering, similarly perplexed. “You mean, you’ve been in front of us the entire time?” Lancelot chuckles, returning his hand to the bark in demonstration.

Nimue looks on as the children admire the man in wonder, begging to see it again. She marvels, herself, despite having witnessed the act before, having been a part of it.

They soon prepare to play another game, with Squirrel as seeker. “Don’t cheat this time,” Squirrel says, giving Lancelot a playful shove.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lancelot responds with mock seriousness. At the assurance, the boy closes his eyes and begins counting. 

Nimue takes off, the perfect hiding place in mind. From the corner of her eye, she can see Lancelot heading in the same direction. “It seems you are uniquely qualified to excel at this game,” Nimue whispers, barely concealing a giggle.

“I always wondered what it would look like if I used my skills for good,” Lancelot jokes, coming to stand at her side.

Nimue clasps a hand over her mouth, silencing the burst of laughter that escapes at his comical notion, that playing a game with children was the height of his goodness.

“Where are you hiding?” Lancelot’s low voice rumbles in her ear. 

She ignores the warmth that ignites in her at his proximity, at the tickle of his breath on the shell of her ear. “The crevice in the old oak tree—“

“—down by the creek,” Lancelot finishes her sentence. “It seems we’ve had the same idea.”

“Seventy-two, seventy-three…”

No time to find a new spot, Nimue races Lancelot to the creek. She launches herself at the tree, claiming the spot.

“There’s no time to find another spot,” Lancelot complains, trying to push her aside. 

“That’s not my problem,” Nimue says, pushing back. 

He contorts his lips into a pout. “Please?”

“No way.”

“You would leave me at the mercy of Percival?” Lancelot questions, his pout equal parts adorable and pathetic.

“Fine,” Nimue rolls her eyes at his antics, stepping aside to let him into the space. 

It’s a close fit, the two of them packed into the crevice. She shifts trying to get comfortable, an impossible task with their arms smushed together, their legs bent and entwined. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Nimue grumbles, shifting to face him; her nose brushes his with the movement. He absently rubs at his nose, his arm grazing her chest. She blushes at the accidental contact. “This is quite possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had, and I’m certain you’ve had many terrible ideas in your life,” Nimue quips, unable to be truly annoyed with him. 

He tickles her in retribution. 

She glares at him, but her outrage is more for show. “You don’t know what you’ve started,” Nimue warns. He raises an eyebrow in a challenge. 

Squirrel finds them moments later, entangled and laughing hysterically.


	11. Chapter 11

Nimue returns to camp after the game’s end, a smile lingering at the memory of her ridiculous fight with Lancelot.

Her reverie is broken when she stumbles upon Arthur in a heated discussion with the Red Spear. 

“We need to move away from here!” She admonishes. “If they know about the massacre, then it’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

Nimue cuts in, worried. “What’s going on?”

“I just got word that Eydis has gone to Rome, intent to secure the Trinity Guard for Cumber. They’re coming for you,” she nods her head pointedly at Nimue.

Nimue blanches. The Trinity Guard. She remembers the beating they’d given Lancelot. Lancelot, who it seemed could withstand any attack. How could she protect her people against that?

She paces, thinking. “We’ll have to go to Uther, beg for his support, if need be. Maybe Mordred can spare a few hundred men.”

“Mordred?” The Spear demands, her eyes narrowing.

“You know him?”

The woman nods.

“Will he help us?”

“Mordred?” She speaks his name as if it were a curse and a blessing, an answer and a question. “One never knows what he might do.”

Just what they needed, another unpredictable ally. But they were desperate. “Go to the Keep,” Nimue instructs the Spear. “We need to know where Uther stands in all of this.” 

The Spear wordlessly agrees.

“I’ll accompany you,” Arthur offers.

“That will not be necessary,” she argues.

“Maybe not, but I’ll feel better knowing the Fey interest will be represented and not just whatever personal vendetta you have against Cumber,” Arthur gives her a meaningful look that speaks of conversations Nimue had not been privy to.

The Spear glares at him. “Fine. We’ll leave in the morning.” She saunters off, leaving Arthur and Nimue alone.

“Thank you,” Nimue says, after a beat. “It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s just…”

Arthur laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Believe me, I know.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

After Arthur and the Spear depart for Uther’s keep, Nimue seeks out Squirrel. Because she’s bored, not because a certain broody monk seemed to be everywhere the boy was as of late. 

After some inquiry, she finds the pair in the clearing where she usually spars with Lancelot. Squirrel is teetering on a felled tree trunk, attempting to walk its distance while Lancelot occasionally prods him with a stick.

“What on earth are you doing?” Nimue asks, perplexed. 

Squirrel falls, her voice breaking his concentration. “That was as close as I’ve been to the end all morning, Nimue!” the boy complains. 

“Oh, come on, that’s easy,” she goads him.

“If it’s so easy, you do it,” the boy challenges. 

Nimue hops up on the log, sticking her tongue out at Squirrel. She takes a few graceful steps before she feels a poke at her side. Squirrel was prodding her with a stick, as Lancelot had done to him. She starts to turn around, meaning to walk the path backwards to really aggravate Squirrel, but she missteps. 

Before she can brace herself for the impact, her motion is suspended by a pair of strong arms. Lancelot holds her a moment longer than is strictly necessary, only setting her down when Squirrel clears his throat in annoyance. Nimue blushes, her skin tingling where his hands had been.

“So, what is the purpose of this exercise?” Nimue asks, motioning to the extended beam. 

“We’re working on his balance,” Lancelot says, nudging the boy’s shoulder.

“His balance is good,” Nimue observes, “but he is very easily distracted.”

“Indeed,” Lancelot chuckles.

Squirrel looks between them, his arms crossed. “I think I liked it better before you were friends,” he says, almost petulantly. The two share a look and then burst into laughter at the boy’s vexation. Squirrel rolls his eyes. “I’m heading back to camp.” He gathers his cloak from the dirt, discarded in anticipation of the day’s training. 

“We will continue this tomorrow,” Lancelot calls after the boy’s retreating form.

Squirrel throws a hand up in acknowledgment, agreement, and then he is gone.

She is alone with Lancelot. Nimue cannot help but wonder if that had been what she wanted when she sought out Squirrel. 

Lancelot sits on the log’s edge, his feet dangling over the side. He pats the space next to him, then offers his hand to help pull her up. Her thigh brushes against his as she gets situated, but instead of creating distance, she maintains the contact, enjoying the warmth that spreads through her limbs. 

“It seems you have driven away my pupil,” Lancelot teases.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted your lesson.” Her apology lacks much sincerity.

Lancelot laughs, “He was begging to quit, quite dramatically, in fact, before you showed up, anyway.”

“Squirrel? Dramatic?” Nimue feigns shock. 

“Hard to believe, I know,” Lancelot replies through laughter. She likes it when he laughs, a melody softly sung, slightly hesitant, but then crescendoing into a thing of beauty. 

She nudges him with her thigh, “You’re a good teacher.”

He scoffs, “Hardly.”

“You are!” Nimue insists. “I was truly terrible with a sword, and since we’ve been sparring, I’ve gotten worlds better.”

“I don’t know if I’d say worlds better, but…”

She whacks his shoulder. His balance does not falter for a second. “I jest,” he laughs. “Your skill with a sword has certainly improved,” he says, with no small amount of sincerity this time.

“I’m glad for it,” Nimue speaks, softly. “It has become easier to bear.” She’s reminded of the whispers, the suggestion, the corruption each time she had drawn upon the Sword’s power. It threatened to undo her. Wielding the Sword of her own strength, even if only for a few moments, provided relief from its terrible weight.

“I suspect you don’t simply mean the physical act of swinging a sword,” Lancelot intuits, seeing right through her. 

Nimue shakes her head. “I draw on the Sword’s strength and it fulfills my intent. It draws on my strength, in turn.” She pauses, trying to find the words to best describe the Sword’s influence over her. “It tries to sway me, to tempt me to madness. Drained of strength, of will, its suggestions seem more like wisdom than folly.” Her eyes reveal a terror she had long pushed aside in an attempt to stay strong for her people. “It’s becoming harder to tell my own thoughts from the Sword’s corruption,” Nimue finishes, voice small.

He takes her hand then, the gesture reassuring. “I will help you in any way that I can,” Lancelot declares, as if it were a calling from his God. She gets the feeling he does not simply mean sparring, and her grip on his hand tightens, holding on to the promise.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

“So how do you know this man, anyway?” Arthur puzzles at the connection. He’s certain she won’t answer; she’d been ignoring him pretty completely over the past few days.

“Mordred is well known among the lords of the north,” she starts. “For a price, he’ll make you a king,” she scoffs. “I encountered him in my…what did you call it? ‘Personal vendetta’ against Cumber. I refused to pay his price.” 

That is all she says, leaving Arthur with many more questions as they wait for the man to show up. They had already met with Uther, but he was noncommittal at best, when they drastically needed assurances. That left Mordred. 

“Let me do the talking when Mordred gets here,” the Spear commands. Arthur seems ready to protest, but before he can get a word in, the intimidating woman is pinching his cheek, as though he were a child. “He’d eat you alive, darling.”

Arthur is not sure if he’s more offended or embarrassed by the endearment.

Mordred arrives moments later. He waltzes in, as though he owns the room. “Delightful to see you, as always, Guinevere.”

“Guinevere?” Arthur mouths. She glares daggers at him.

“What are you playing at, Mordred?” She bites, ignoring the man’s attempt at charm.

“I see you’ve maintained your natural talent for exchanging pleasantries,” Mordred observes, almost flirtatiously. At her impatient look, he relents. “I only mean to see this land flourish under a true king,” he remarks, his eyes landing briefly on Arthur before returning to Guinevere’s.

“And Uther Pendragon is that king?” She questions, dubious.

“Cumber is not,” Mordred states, as though it’s an answer to her question.

She fixes him with a look Arthur does not quite understand. “On that, at least, we are agreed.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The days pass slowly in Arthur’s absence, but Nimue finds she does not mind so much, passing the time with Lancelot. They continue to spar, working with the intent of building her strength. They eat meals together, spend hours talking by the fire’s side, long into the night, until Nimue yawns and returns to her tent. They had developed a nice pattern, and she takes comfort in it.

One particularly cold night, the rest of the camp long asleep, Nimue sits huddled beside Lancelot, rubbing her hands over the flames, desperately seeking warmth. He’d already given her his cloak, her small frame drowning in its size. She shivers, warmth evading her as she wraps herself more firmly in the cloak. She inhales, the scent of ash and earth overwhelming her senses. Nimue moves closer to him, snuggling into his side to steal any heat he was coveting.

He freezes, his body rigid in equal parts from cold and discomfort. Finally, cold wins out, and he wraps his arms around her, settling her comfortably against his chest. Nimue sighs, his warmth soaking into her. Content, she burrows into him, sleep finding her soon after.


	12. Chapter 12

Lancelot awakens, feeling…heavier. He looks down and sees Nimue’s head resting on his chest, her long hair fanned out across her back. _That explains the weight._ He shifts, careful not to wake her; she looks so peaceful in sleep, so content. Knowing her daily waking burden, he allows her to cling to sleep, to him. He’s amazed at her trust in him, at the power she gave him over her with her vulnerability. He’ll not do anything to ruin that. Other than his bond with Percival, it was this he cherished most. Lancelot is not sure when he had let her become so important to him, he just knew that she was.

He had been told nearly his entire life that it was better for him to be alone. After all, a man without attachments could dedicate himself more completely to God. He had been desperate to be a more perfect servant, latching on to Carden’s instruction and reveling in his benediction. 

Holding her now, he sees the error of his ways; he had never felt closer to God than with her in his arms.

Lancelot sighs, content; the feeling is unfamiliar, but he relishes it. He closes his eyes once more, and returns to sleep’s warm embrace.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur and Guinevere return to camp early, having walked through the cold night, eager to relay their news to Nimue. They find the camp quiet, no sign of activity. Arthur checks his tent, but does not find Nimue there. Thinking she may have gone down to the creek, he makes his way through camp, Guinevere close behind. 

At the forest’s edge, the creek bustling in the background, Arthur sees a couple asleep beside a dwindling fire. Closer, he looks down upon her long brown hair fanned across her back, a familiar sight. Here was Nimue. Entwined with Lancelot. 

He feels angry, betrayed, but he does not want to awaken them. Does not want to hear her try to explain while her body is still warm from _his_ touch. 

He storms off, feigning a confidence he does not feel, Guinevere torn between protest and pity as she follows. He stifles them both. “Later.” He returns to his tent, alone.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue’s eyes open slowly, not wanting to reveal the world just yet when her dreams had been so sweet. Her cheek brushes against something rough, and she looks down at worn, dark fabric. She inhales, ash and sky filling her lungs. Lancelot. She glances up, finding him still asleep. His face is peaceful, almost unrecognizable but for the familiar streaks beneath his eyes. His eyes which were now open and gazing back at her, sleepily.

“Good morning,” she says with a nervous giggle. He moves a hand from her back to rub the sleep from his eyes. She misses the contact instantly. 

“Good morning,” he replies, his low voice still rough from disuse. He looks at her a moment. “We should probably head back. I told Percival I would train with him this morning; he’ll be looking for me soon.”

As if she could escape the rising of the sun, Nimue buries her face in his chest, not wanting to let go quite yet. He laughs, and she feels the rumbling, vibrating across her nose, her lips. His hand returns to her back, stroking gently before his fingers move to her scalp, carding through her hair. She sighs. Could they not stay like this forever?

After a few moments of trying to prolong the inevitable, Nimue detaches herself from Lancelot, standing slowly. She smooths her hands over her wrinkled clothing, setting herself to rights. If only it were so simple to order her thoughts, her feelings. 

He joins her, standing, stamping out what is left of the fire. With it, she feels her sweet contentment extinguish, the weight of the world facing her down again. He smiles down at her, tentatively, before setting off to find Squirrel.

Nimue returns to her tent, surprised to find Arthur there. “You’re back.” She thinks she probably does not sound as happy as she should. 

“You wake early?” Arthur asks, likely wondering why she hadn’t been there. 

Nimue swallows. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk, enjoyed the sunrise.” She’s not sure why she lies; it’s not as if she’s done anything wrong. Still, she cannot bring herself to tell him how she truly awoke this morning, so she keeps it to herself, a sweet little secret. 

Arthur only nods, accepting her answer without question. “Uther seems intent to leave us to our own peril,” he reports. She deflates at that, her mind instantly reviewing other options. “Mordred, on the other hand,” he continues, “has committed a force of one thousand men.” Her eyes widen in shock. “They’re to arrive in a fortnight.” 

“You might have led with that,” Nimue teases, relieved to finally hear some good news. “How did you convince him?”

“I didn’t,” Arthur says, simply. “Guinevere did.”

“Guinevere?” Nimue asks, perplexed. 

Arthur laughs. “That’s what Mordred called her, the Spear.”

Nimue nods in understanding. “This is great news. I’ll alert the council, see if we can get started preparing the camp to accommodate Mordred’s men.” She’s up in a frenzy, already overwhelmed with what’s to come. She kisses his temple, the gesture little more than an afterthought as she races out of the tent, purposefully. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot returns from his sparring session with Percival to a camp abuzz with activity. Something must have happened. He usually got his news from Percival; the boy had a bad habit of listening where he was not invited, but Lancelot had not discouraged him because it was the only way he could stay informed when he first arrived. Now, Nimue shared more readily with him, even asking his advice on occasion. He marvels at the change.

Before he can return to his dwelling, he’s stopped by Arthur; he didn’t realize the man had returned. “What’s happened?”

“We’re preparing the camp for the arrival of additional troops.”

“How many?”

“One thousand.” 

Lancelot whistles, astounded by the number. “Uther was willing to spare that many?” His tone is colored with disbelief. 

“They’re mercenaries,” Arthur corrects, “commanded by a man from the north. Mordred.”

Lancelot nods, taking it in. 

“That’s why I’ve come to you, actually,” Arthur tells him. He doesn’t look happy about it. “Mordred is to remain with Uther for the time being. We’ll need someone to encourage their continued training and discipline in his absence.”

Lancelot stops. “Me?”

He nods. “Mordred’s men will likely mean the difference between life and death for us.” Arthur looks at him, intently. “Can I trust you with this?” The hesitation in his voice makes it sound like he is reluctant, but this is something he must do. 

Stunned at being entrusted with such responsibility, Lancelot responds in earnest, “I will not disappoint you.” 

Lancelot does not miss the strange look that shadows Arthur’s features before he accepts Lancelot’s promise. Arthur leaves without a word, leaving Lancelot puzzled at the man’s return to hesitancy around him. He had thought they had made progress after their trip to the coast, and despite his excitement at the chance to prove his worth, he still felt that for every step they took forward, he was taking two steps back. Shrugging off his worry, and a strangely venomous look from the Viking commander, he sets to planning, determined to win over Arthur.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Guinevere says nothing as Arthur sets up a tent near those of her people. He did not need her words, a reminder of the pain she could tell he felt, despite his best attempts to conceal it. The Fey Queen had been too busy planning and preparing to notice how he had been distancing himself the past several days, but she had seen. She felt sorry for Arthur, this man that loved with his entire being, being cast aside with so little regard. It was not her business, she reminds herself, helping solidify the frame of Arthur’s new resting place.

She feels slightly guilty. It was her suggestion, after all, that took him away from camp. However, given the way the Fey Killer looked at the Queen, she figured it was probably inevitable, anyway. That would not reassure Arthur, so she keeps it to herself, determined not to be another person that causes him pain.


	13. Chapter 13

Nimue stays busy over the next several days, preparing for the arrival of their new allies. She was a nervous mess, attempting to plan down to the last detail. She sees little of Arthur; he’d been distant since he’d returned, setting up a tent of his own amongst the Vikings. She had been curious, but was too distracted by her own anxiety to pursue him for an explanation.

He returns that night, apologizing for disturbing her as he quickly grabs a cloak he’d left behind. 

“Arthur?” She calls out to him before he leaves the tent, looking up from the maps she’s been studying for hours. He turns back to her, almost reluctantly. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought I’d clear a space for Lancelot,” Arthur shrugs, as if it’s of little consequence to him. 

_What in the nine hells is he talking about?_ She asks him as much. 

“I saw you with him the morning I returned,” Arthur says, bitterly. “You lied to my face about it when I asked. I’ll not continue to sleep beside you while you make a fool of me.”

Nimue feels horrible for lying. She tries to clarify. “That was not what you think,” she says. “We were talking, and it was cold, and I fell asleep. That is all. It was nothing.” She knows the words are untrue as she says them, but for some reason she’s desperate to convince him, and maybe herself.

She sees the bitterness fading from his eyes, thinks she sees relief take its place, but ultimately, it is resignation which lingers. “It might not be what I assumed, but it’s not nothing, Nimue.” The tent flap flutters behind him as he leaves her to return to her maps. 

She does not cry. She can’t; she’s too preoccupied with the words he’d uttered before departing. Nimue cannot shake it— _it’s not nothing._

And, he’s right. It’s not nothing. The way she feels around Lancelot is completely singular. And that terrifies her. She likes _nothing._ She doesn’t want _something_ to ruin what they had so carefully built.

She wants to go to Lancelot, desperate for the comfort his presence provides, but she refuses to treat Arthur as little more than an obstacle to overcome. He deserved far better than that; she had loved him for a time, she’s sure. So, she stays put, left only with the comfort of her maps and an agonizing anxiety over things to come.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur does not know why he continues to meet Lancelot to spar. He must enjoy the punishment. _In more ways than one._

Arthur matches the man strike for strike, his feet moving in a perfect counteraction. He doesn’t know if his pride can handle defeat at Lancelot’s hand today. He strikes hard, and for a moment, Lancelot loses his balance; Arthur takes advantage, leveling him with fury, jealousy, bitterness, everything. 

The words are so foreign coming from the monk, he almost does not hear them. “I yield.”

Arthur tempers the torrent of his emotions, lowering his sword as his breath slows. “You didn’t let me win?”

Lancelot laughs. “It that were a real fight, you’d have killed me,” he assures the man. “What’s lighting a fire beneath you today?”

He’s determined not to talk about this with Lancelot. He’ll not play the simpering, jealous fool. “I’m just preparing for the battle to come,” Arthur says, simply. 

Lancelot lets it go, and Arthur is immensely thankful.

On their way back to camp, Lancelot details his plans for Mordred’s troops. Arthur cannot help but be impressed; Lancelot was thorough and exact in his planning, and despite whatever personal conflict they were locked in, he knew he’d chosen the right man for the task.

His goodwill fades when he sees Nimue waiting by Lancelot’s tent, talking animatedly with the boy Squirrel. It’s all so…familial. “We’ll continue this later,” Arthur says, leaving Lancelot behind, without so much as a word of greeting to Nimue. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

“That was odd,” Lancelot says as he joins Nimue and Percival. 

Nimue just shrugs, but he sees the way her cheeks tint pink before she turns back to Percival, arguing with him about stealing from others. 

“I’m not stealing,” Percival corrects. “I’m borrowing, indefinitely.”

Lancelot laughs at the boy’s distinction. “Men of honor do not steal from others, Percival.” 

The boy looks like he’s about to protest, but Nimue cuts him off, “A knight is supposed to serve others, not take from them.” She’s gentle in her reproach, and Percival nods, reluctantly accepting the truth of her words. 

The boy rises, his muttering barely audible as he departs. “I’ll return it.”

Nimue meets Lancelot’s eye, and he can see that she’s proud of the boy. “You’re good with him,” Lancelot observes. 

Nimue smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. “I feel responsible for him. He’s just a child, with no one to look after him.”

Lancelot looks away at that, ashamed that he had been a part of the raid that had killed the boy’s father. Somehow, she knows exactly where his mind has gone. “You cannot change any of that,” she says, softly. “But I’ve seen you working every day to be better, and that counts for something.” She’s as gentle with him as she had been with Percival. 

“What if it’s not enough?” He voices the fear that had long been lingering.

“It may never be.” He’s haunted by the thought. “But, it speaks magnitudes of your honor that you would try so hard, despite that possibility.”

He wonders how she can see such goodness in him—he does not feel it within himself.

“I’m glad for your influence on him,” Nimue says, returning the conversation to Percival.

Lancelot chuckles. “That is not something I ever thought I would hear said about me.”

She reaches out to him, holding his hands in her own, a reassurance. “You are doing good here, Lancelot.”

He feels a familiar rush of tranquility at her words, her touch. He clings to it, hopeful.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue fights the urge to embrace him. It’s nearly impossible when he looks at her as if she were his guiding light, the anchor that kept him from drifting away. She needs to stop touching him; she cannot think straight when she can feel his heart beating through his skin. Nimue does not release his hands. She studies him, wordlessly, and he does the same. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her. 

They’re interrupted by a woman, clearing her throat intently. “You’re needed with the council; we must determine how we are to feed Mordred’s men.” She feels his hands fall from her grasp as she turns to face an impatient Guinevere. “Now.” 

Lancelot nods at her before entering his tent, leaving the women alone. Nimue cannot help but think that Guinevere seems colder, more aloof than usual, as she follows behind the Viking commander. “Have I done something to offend you?” She’s worried; now was not the time to be alienating allies. 

Guinevere stops in her tracks. Nimue almost topples over her. “Listen, I’m not here to talk about our feelings.” Guinevere bites. “My main concern is keeping my men and Mordred’s safe and fed so we stand a chance against Cumber. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” Nimue mumbles, cowed by the woman’s intensity.

“Good.” Guinevere continues on, making it clear that there was nothing more to say.

*****

Nimue arrives before the council, Guinevere taking her place by Arthur’s side. “Mordred has promised a small supply of grain,” Guinevere begins, “but it will not be enough to sustain his men, who may be with us for some time.”

“We can hunt,” Kaze suggests, “send out anyone we can spare.” 

Nimue nods. “Those who remain can expand the gardens and help preserve any meat the hunters bring back.”

“Will it be enough?” Arthur asks what they are all thinking.

“It’s a start,” Guinevere responds, honestly. “We’ll adjust as we go.” 

Agreed, the council departs to implement their plans. Children set to the gardens and hunters depart later that day, Lancelot among them. She thinks back to the morning, at how close they had been to _something._ Nimue curses herself for her weakness. Perhaps it was good that he was away—it would give her time to get her foolish heart under control.

Sleep evades her. She finds no comfort in her maps, as she had the nights before. Frustrated, Nimue leaves her tent, begging the Hidden for peace as she walks amongst the trees. She tries to keep her mind clear, but it seems intent to focus on the worst possible outcomes. _What if they didn’t have enough food? What if Mordred’s men were not enough to withstand the Trinity Guard?_

How had so much come to depend upon her? How was she supposed to protect her people with naught but a sword? Nimue feels more than hears the truth of their whispers. _We’ve given you everything you need. Surrender._

Surrender. She’s reminded of the day she met Merlin, when he had drawn magic from her. _Create an intent and surrender it to the Hidden._ She’d been amazed at the fruit of her labor; she had not thought herself capable of it. Nimue closes her eyes, ridding her mind of any doubts, any distractions, her intent clear. _Surrender._ She opens her eyes a moment later, an apple tree towering over her. She laughs, in amazement, in relief. She closes her eyes once more, hearing the rustling of roots and branches. She opens her eyes to find a small orchard. Nimue thanks the Hidden, for once, feeling like maybe she could do this, after all. Lead.

She turns to head back to camp, certain that sleep will find her tonight. She halts at the sight of Arthur, standing mesmerized by her creation. “I did not know you could do that.” He sounds as amazed as she had felt. 

She smiles, distantly. “I didn’t either.”

They stand side by side, staring out into the orchard. “Are you happy, Nimue?” He asks after several moments of silence between them. 

She looks out at the trees, an answered prayer, a whisper of destiny. “I think I will be.”


	14. Chapter 14

She tries to fight it, her desire to be near him, but she fails at nearly every turn, spending every moment she can spare with Lancelot when he returns. They talk about everything and nothing, eat together, laughing at Squirrel’s antics. 

They continue to spar, as well, the development in her physical strength allowing her to withstand the consuming power of the Sword for longer, to wield it better. Gradually, she gets faster, smarter in her movements. 

Somehow, she has disarmed him. He dodges her strikes, as if he knows where each one will land before she’s even planned it. Lancelot grabs for her sword hand, forcing the blade into the ground and wrestling her down with it. He has her pinned, drawing his dagger to her neck. 

She pouts. “I thought I had you beaten for once.”

“What? No tricks left?” He smirks at her and she blushes, recalling her not-so-distant strategy. 

“None.” She bites her lip, looking up at him, innocently.

His eyes fall to her mouth, watching enthralled as her lower lip disappears behind her teeth. He doesn’t know what guides him, but suddenly he’s overwhelmed by a desire to be closer to her. As if possessed, he discards his dagger, letting it fall to the dirt beside her. His hand moves to her cheek, his thumb brushing across her lips, light as a feather. Lancelot lowers his head, his mouth descending on hers. 

When he’s just a hairsbreadth away, he feels a shove to his chest, pushing him back. Nimue is up and off, away from him, away from camp. He stares after her, momentarily stunned. Then, feeling guilty, he follows. “Nimue!” She ignores him, continuing to weave through the trees, evading him. 

“Nimue?” She stops in her tracks, but she does not turn to face him.

“Nimue, I’m sorry, I—“ 

“I’m afraid.” He stops at that. 

“I thought you weren’t afraid of me,” he says after a moment. She hears the betrayal in his voice before he can stifle it. 

She spins around, determined. “I’m not afraid of you!” He doubts her, she can see it. “I’m not!” Her denial is forceful. “I’m afraid of the way…” she hesitates, not wanting to let the words come out. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m afraid of how I feel when I’m around you.” Her voice is barely a whisper when the words finally come.

“How is that?” He asks, desperate for some confession, some indication she shares these feelings so foreign to him. 

“Like I’m burning alive and drowning, all at once.”

He sucks in a breath, sensing her pain, her conflict, not the peace, the contentedness he’d come to feel with her. His eyes bore into hers, hoping for a sign he was wrong. He sees nothing. “I’m sorry to cause you such pain; I’ll make myself scarce, be on my way, if that is what you’d like.”

He does not want to leave, does not want to be without her, but he will go without a word should she bid it. 

The pain in her eyes increases tenfold. “You don’t understand!” She argues, passion rubbing her voice raw.

“Explain it to me,” he demands, his usual collected demeanor tainted by a fervor that rivals hers. 

Her eyes screwed shut, she covers them with a hand, as though she can make this all disappear with enough concentration. “I’m in turmoil with you here, but I’d be in agony if you left.”

He doesn’t speak; he can barely breathe.

“I feel as though I could never truly breathe until it was your breath in my lungs. Your destiny entwined with mine, I finally feel as though I’m not an imposter, but confident in being entrusted by the Hidden to lead. I like myself, for once, or who you make me feel I can be.” Her words come out in a rush, as if she’s lost hold of things long repressed. 

She goes to him, desperate for him to understand. Her fingers trace the lines on his face as his eyes look at her in wonder. “So, you see,” she begins, stroking his cheek, “I have no desire to be without you.”

This time when he moves to join their lips, she lets him. The touch is gentle, unlearned, but she feels a flood of fire, setting her veins ablaze. She leans into him, kissing him more intently, removing any trace of doubt as to her affections. Her hands move to his back, oscillating between holding on for dear life and gently caressing the scars that reside there. His own hands grip her waist, fingers splayed out tentatively on her body, as though if he holds too tightly, she might break. 

She tightens her hold on him, moving closer still. He’s shy, at first, when he feels her tongue sweep his lips, but eventually, he opens his mouth to her, deepening their kiss. It’s sweet and hot and not nearly enough. 

When her hands move lower, feeling the skin beneath his shirt, he pulls away from her, hesitant. “I’ve never, uh…”

“So, the Weeping Monk was more than just a title to invoke fear?” She questions his celibacy, playfully, no hint of judgment. 

He nods, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. 

“Do you mean still to deny yourself?” She traces the marks beneath his eyes, loving their perfect asymmetry. 

He thinks of Carden’s words, poisoning him against affection, against love. They hold him captive no longer. “No,” he says, closing the distance between them. “I don’t think I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has gone up; I couldn't help myself.

It is achingly sinful, the way her body feels against his. The curve of her breasts, the shape of her thighs. He feels a passion igniting in him that he had spent a lifetime trying to repress. When his hand tangles in her hair, she moans, the sound vibrating against his mouth. He smirks against her lips. If this was hell, perhaps it was not so bad to be damned, after all. 

Her lips trail down his neck, hot and wet as they explore the virgin space. He inhales sharply, the sensation alien, but certainly not unwelcome. His name is but a murmur on her lips, soaking into his skin, as her hands return once more to the skin beneath his shirt. He’s certain that this time she can feel his sharp inhalation at the contact. Her fingers trace the rigid muscles of his stomach before moving up to his chest, taking the garment with her, over his head. 

Her hands unbind his hair, her mouth returning to his with fervor. Her fingers run through his silken curls, latching on with the perfect balance of pain and pleasure. Following her lead, he sucks a path down her neck, soothing the angry skin with his tongue as he goes. 

He groans, wantonly, when her fingers trace a path from his chest to his stomach, and then beyond.

His hands fumble with the laces at the back of her dress, eager to remove the barrier between them. After what feels like an infinite struggle, the fabric slips from her shoulders and falls in a puddle at her feet.

She’s bare before him, and he nearly loses his breath at the sight. He fully intends to explore every inch of her skin, to memorize every piece of her as though it were an extension of his very self. And yet, he stands frozen, a part of him still not quite able to believe that this was real. 

“Touch me, Lancelot.” Her eyes are pure seduction, and any lingering doubts are shattered at her invocation, at the way she guides his hands to her skin.

His fingers skate down her sides, a gentle caress, before ascending in their trajectory. His thumb brushes her nipple and she gasps. He continues his exploration steadily, enjoying the noises his ministrations elicit from her.

She tugs insistently at what is left of his clothing, determined he reveal himself completely to her. He obliges. He’d give her anything.

She leads him gently to the ground, and Lancelot feels the earth beneath him as she straddles him. There’s nothing between them now. God above.

He hesitates, this Fey goddess atop him. He wonders if she can read the apprehension in his eyes. She kisses him, slow and deep, drowning him in her desire. There is no fear, not anymore; there is only her. “Show me,” he begs, desperate. 

Her heat engulfs him as she sinks down, sharing in the moan that escapes his lips. “Nimue,” he utters, a whisper, a prayer, his hands clinging to her hips in supplication. Pleasure ripples through him when she moves, her breasts brushing his chest as she leans in to capture his mouth once more. Her tongue is as insistent as her hips, chasing something he’s not sure he can give her. 

Of their own volition, his lips close around her breast as she moves against him. He’s gentle, worshipful in his attention of one, and then the other. He feels her shiver, sees her eyes roll back in appreciation, in rapture.

Emboldened, he rolls them over, taking his place above her as the earth stains the purity of her delicious skin. He moves out of her slowly, before sliding back in, testing the movement. He finds a rhythm quickly, her body moving with his in an otherworldly synchronization. As if she was made for him.

She cries out to God each time he thrusts deeper into her, and he does not quite understand the sentiment, until he feels her tightening around him moments later. Her face is awash with pleasure, an indescribable ecstasy. He follows her there with a few more desperate movements of his hips. It’s nothing short of holy, the way he collapses against her, spent.

He looks down at her, his adoration undisguised, as he strokes her still-flushed cheek. She smiles up at him, shyly, and Lancelot swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful than her in this moment.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue sighs in perfect contentment as Lancelot falls to the ground beside her. She turns, resting her head on his beautifully sculpted chest. By the Hidden, the man was like a statue, carved in a perfect image. 

She feels his fingers trace the indents in her back, the scars that had long haunted her. Nimue shivers; she feels the darkest parts of herself coming to the surface at his touch. But, where there had always been fear and rejection, there was now tenderness, affection. It wasn’t the darkest part of her, simply a part of her, as much as the blood in her veins or the blue in her eyes. 

She settles into his touch, relishing the way his fingers soothe her skin and begin to heal a part of her that had long been broken.

They lay together in comfortable silence, Nimue occasionally pressing her lips to his skin, softly, as he runs a hand absently over her back, her shoulders. 

“You know, that wasn’t bad, for a monk,” she teases him.

He swats her arm, playfully. “Well, I suppose I had a good teacher.” He rolls over, his body propped partially over hers. “And who knows?” Lancelot says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “with practice, I am bound to get worlds better.” She blushes at the suggestive way he uses the words she’d once said.

“I don’t know if I’d say world’s better, but—” 

He silences her echo of his retort with his mouth. His lips are intent and far more skilled in their pursuit than they’d been not too long ago. It figures that Lancelot would be a fast learner. He’s far too competitive, too driven, to do anything in half-measures. He turns his attention to her collarbone, his nose tickling the hollow of her neck. “No?” 

She only laughs, but it’s breathy, an affirmation. He continues his _practice,_ memorizing every part of her with his mouth. And God, if this wasn’t better than sparring, Nimue thinks, euphoric as his lips find the most sensitive part of her.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> revelations

Merlin sits across from Mordred at one of Uther’s many grandiose tables, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waits for the man to speak. Mordred, much to Merlin’s great frustration, seems content to sit in silence. It seems he had summoned him with no real sense of urgency. Finally, Merlin narrows his eyes, voicing the thoughts that plagued him. “What, exactly, is your angle, committing troops to the Fey, while swearing loyalty to Uther?

“I thought you would be pleased, what with me lending my support to your people.” Mordred’s magnanimity leaves a bitter taste in Merlin’s mouth. 

“And I think you play every side so it is always you who comes out on top,” Merlin’s distaste is evident. 

“You think me ambitious?” Mordred inquires.

“I think you manipulative and unworthy of trust,” Merlin counters. “Have you promised men to Cumber, as well?”

“You wound me, truly, with your distrust.” Mordred smiles then, a direct contradiction to his claim. “As for your other insinuation,” he says, twirling a brass signet ring around his finger, absently, “Cumber may have the blood, but he is less of a king than the Pendragon pretender. Rest assured that it is not him I wish to see in power.”

“Your assurances do not mean much to me, usurper.”

Mordred tuts, “I had hoped you and I would see eye to eye. We do have a shared interest, after all.”

Merlin looks at him in disbelief, as if he could not possibly share anything with this man. “And what would that be?”

Mordred chuckles, the answer obvious in his mind. “Why, destroying the Sword of Power, of course.”

It is the most direct he’s been since he arrived, but Merlin cannot help but feel that this, too, is some sort of deception. He keeps his doubts to himself, intent to outwit this master puppeteer. “The thought is appealing to me, certainly, but what do you gain from the Sword’s destruction?”

Mordred shrugs, “personally, not much.”

“It’s altruism, then?” Merlin inquires, trying to hide his overwhelming skepticism.

“Of a sort.” Mordred smirks.

“Where do we begin?” Merlin smiles—all charm, no substance—and raises a glass to the man seated across the table.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Eydis surveys the golden faces shrouded in black. She turns to Abbott Wicklow, trying to remain unimpressed. “Which of your men was it that landed the final blow on the Wolf Blood Witch?”

A small form steps forward, golden mask removed to reveal a girl. A child. Eydis laughs in insulting disbelief. “Truly?”

She sees the bitter defensiveness in the child’s eyes, begging to be let loose. Wicklow waves a hand, silencing any rebuttal. “That will be all, Sister Iris.” The child steps back, her expression stifled as she redons the hauntingly stoic golden visage.

“Sometimes God answers our prayers in the most unexpected ways,” Wicklow philosophizes. “A child, desperate to be a servant, prevails where a devout man and his assassin son fail.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this,” Eydis begins, not really hating it at all, “but the Wolf Blood Witch lives.”

The child steps forward again, defiant. “Not possible. I struck her heart.” 

“It seems you missed,” Eydis remarks, snidely, before turning her attention back to Wicklow. “She attacked one of your outposts, slaughtering your men in their sleep. And apparently,” she pauses, meaning to emphasize this last part, “she wields the Devil’s Tooth, once again.”

Abbott Wicklow, who seemed to have a response for everything, was struck silent at her revelation. 

“So it seems,” Eydis steps closer, threatening, “that the Church has failed to deliver what was promised to us.”

“The slight was unintentional, believe me,” Wicklow apologizes, profusely. 

“Be that as it may, we require reparation. Cumber demands one thousand of your Trinity Guard.” 

Wicklow recoils at the number. “I can spare six hundred men,” he counters. “God’s justice is needed in many places” he waxes grandiloquently, as if it is an excuse she’ll be tempted to accept. 

“You will give me eight hundred men, and all will be forgiven.” She towers over him, voice, eyes, sinister as she gives her final offer. With Uther no longer open to negotiation, Cumber offers the Church’s best chance of regaining the Sword, and he knows it. 

He nods reluctantly, not wanting to admit defeat. “Eight hundred men will follow you in a fortnight,” Wicklow declares.

“They’ll leave day after next, under my supervision,” Eydis corrects. “We can’t have your incompetence cost my father his throne.” Her final blow to his pride quells any rebuttal his weaselly mouth was about to make. 

“Until then,” Eydis says, departing with a wicked grin at her victory.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Merlin plops down at the rough wooden table, squinting in the dim room of the unfamiliar tavern. Apparently, stealing Fey fire from a Shadow lord meant you were no longer welcome in their shady establishments. Who knew? “Ah, my lady death,” he says in greeting. 

Morgana rolls her eyes, an almost convincingly human display of annoyance. “Merlin.”

He gets right to the point. “Mordred told me he means to destroy the Sword of Power.”

She raises an eyebrow at that. “And do you mean to help him with that?” She knows, inexplicably, that this destruction had been one of the only things that had motivated him to remain among the living. He would be happy for the alliance. She also knows that now he has good reason not to destroy the Sword, what with his daughter’s life and the future of the Fey depending on it.

“I mean for him to think I do,” Merlin reveals. 

“And how, exactly, do you mean to do that?” Morgana questions.

“That,” Merlin waves to the bar wench for a drink, “has yet to be determined.” A goblet of crimson wine is set in front of him. He sips once, wincing at the taste. _Once you’ve drunk with a king…_ He drinks again, ignoring the acridity.

Morgana eyes him, considering. After a moment, she speaks. “You are right not to trust Mordred.” 

Merlin laughs, nearly spluttering his wine. “Do you care to expand on that, or…?”

Morgana sighs, feeling the solitude of her foresight. “It is not for you to know, just yet.” He looks like he wants to protest, but then he drinks, instead. “For now,” she continues, “you must find a way to placate the deceiver and save the Fey.”

“Oh, is that all?” If he were more sober, he might balk at the seeming impossibility of the task before him. Merlin laughs, darkly. “Despite my deeply intense hatred for that cursed sword, I will prevent its destruction; I fear it has some part to play, yet.”

“Excalibur will determine the fate of them all,” Morgana says, her voice oddly hollow, emotionless, as she states the future.

Merlin stills. “It has not been called that in an age.” His voice is little more than a whisper. “It has not been worthy of the name.”

“It will be, one day soon,” she promises.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue rises ahead of the sun, smiling sleepily at the feeling of her bare limbs entwined with his. Her body aches, but it’s pleasant, a reminder of the intimacy they had shared. It had been instinctual between them, natural. 

She lets out a sigh at the memory of his tongue on her, inside her, wringing pleasure from her body as he showed her a piece of his heaven. It had been almost an accident, his mouth finding the place that made her writhe and moan. Of course, seeing her reaction, he had set to his task with zealous devotion. It was the most exquisite agony she’d ever experienced; she had been desperate for release with his every touch, with every stroke of his tongue. Finally, his lips had wrapped around the sensitive bud, pulling everything from her but a magnificent, boneless, tingling bliss.

“Good morning,” Lancelot says, the affection in his tired voice bringing her back to the here and now.

Nimue leans into him. “Good morning,” she murmurs against his lips. He smiles into the kiss, his hands cradling her jaw before tangling in her hair, drawing her closer. 

“Mordred’s men are to arrive today,” Lancelot reminds her, a whisper, before she can get lost in him again. 

Nimue wants to stay entwined with him, responsibilities be damned, but she knows this is too important. She groans, the tightness in her legs a sharp complaint as she rises to clothe herself. Lancelot dresses, then helps her straighten the ties at her back. 

He gives her one final kiss, tender and all too brief, before grabbing his sword and making his way back to camp. Nimue cannot contain her smile as she watches him retreat into the trees. She follows soon after; she’d follow him anywhere.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s an incredible sight, one thousand men, armored identically, standing before her, hope incarnate. She addresses the crowd, awkward, unsure. “We are so thankful that you have come to our aid. Please accept our humble welcome; we will do our best to make sure you are comfortable here.” She does not know what else to say; she’s never commanded armies before.

Arthur steps forward, taking over, much to Nimue’s relief. “This is Lancelot,” Arthur says, motioning to the man beside him. “He will help coordinate your training with that of our warriors so we can be best equipped to face the Trinity Guard together.”

Lancelot comes forward. “Training will commence every morning at dawn. You can have tomorrow to rest, get situated, and we will begin in earnest the following morning.”

The clean lines break as Mordred’s men move to set up tents at the camp’s periphery. She’s glad for an end to the pomp and circumstance. It was one part of being Queen she’s certain she will never get used to. Lancelot comes up behind her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You did well, Nimue.” She leans into his touch, resting in his encouragement, even if she does not believe his words to be true.

She catches Arthur’s eyes on her and Lancelot, noting the man’s hand on her shoulder. Nimue shrinks back from his touch, watching Arthur saunter off with Guinevere. She feels guilty. Guilty for moving on so quickly. Guilty for moving away from Lancelot at Arthur’s gaze.

She turns to face Lancelot, grabbing his hand in reassurance. “Thank you.”

He smiles at her. “I must go get acquainted with the commanders, but I’ll find you tonight,” he promises, before walking off to join Mordred’s men.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The camp is unrecognizable with so many bodies milling about. It is a little overwhelming, even though she knows Mordred’s men are there to help them. It’s also a bit of a learning process, feeding so many mouths at a time. It takes a few days for them to develop a rhythm, a routine that suits them all.

Lancelot comes to her that night, exhausted. He’d taken to training in shifts after the first day, the multitude of soldiers too many to handle all at once. He collapses at her side, grateful when she offers him a chunk of crusty bread and an apple. He scarfs it down, greedily, needing sustenance after a long day of exertion. He sprawls out by the fire’s side, his limbs extending every which direction. After a few moments spent in comfortable silence, the sound of a soft snore catches her attention. Her heart swells at the sight of him, head dropped back, mouth open slightly, dead to the world. She nearly giggles; no one would think him fearsome ever again if they were to see him like this.

She shakes him by the shoulder to wake him. “Lancelot.” He groans, ignoring her. She continues. “Lancelot, you’ll wake uncomfortably if you sleep here,” Nimue warns him with a laugh. He mumbles his annoyance, but he wakes anyway, rubbing his eyes. She stands, offering him her hand. “Come, darling.” She pulls him to his feet, leading him to her tent.

When they arrive, he seems skeptical. He’d been sleeping alone the past few nights, under the impression that Nimue didn’t want the others, most likely Arthur, to know about the change in their relationship. He didn’t like it, but he understood. And after all, he’d had plenty of experience falling asleep alone. Maybe it’s that he craves her nearness, or maybe it’s that he’s so damn tired, but either way, he does not protest when she drags him by the hand through the tent’s flaps.

He collapses onto her makeshift bed with a sigh. She smirks, suspecting it’s more comfortable than the one he’s been sleeping on. _There are some perks to leadership._ Nimue settles down next to him, snuggling into his side. It is hard to be overwhelmed here at the end of the day with him beside her. She exhales, letting go of her worries as she watches Lancelot’s chest rise and fall steadily. He’d fallen asleep almost instantly. He looks at peace; she is glad for it, glad he is no longer constantly haunted by the nightmare of his past. She holds him closer, melting into him. Her eyes close, and she drifts off in absolute serenity.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur sees Nimue lead a sleepy Lancelot from his place by the fire toward her tent, the one they used to share. He tries his hardest to stamp out jealousy before it can take root in him. He does not want to begrudge Nimue her happiness, but it’s hard for him to see her with Lancelot. He feels a hand on his forearm, and looks over to find Guinevere gazing back at him, her presence, her touch a wordless assurance, the comfort he needed. Arthur places a hand over hers, his smile in her direction equal parts hesitant, appreciative, and hopeful.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot wakes, feeling refreshed. It had been an exhausting couple of days, but, miraculously, he feels rested and ready to take on what is sure to be another devitalizing day. He looks over at Nimue, fast asleep beside him and smiles. It felt right, waking up next to her, more right than anything he had ever experienced. He pulls on his boots, picks up his sword, and with one last lingering look at the woman he’d slept next to, heads off for training.

He can’t contain the grin that comes with thoughts of her, curled up into his frame as he slept, as though she were a part of him. “Sleep well?” Arthur interrupts his reverie, sidling up to him as they make their way to the clearing. Arthur had been invaluable the past several days, helping him run training exercises and keep the men focused. Lancelot was appreciative of the man. Now, he chafed at his presence, at his insinuation.

He refuses to be baited, to ruin this day that had started so well. “I did, thank you. I mean to recruit one of Mordred’s men to lead the afternoon training session,” Lancelot offers, getting straight to business.

“Galahad?” Arthur asks. Lancelot nods, grateful the man did not seem intent to prod into more sensitive matters. “It’s a good choice,” Arthur affirms, and Lancelot is glad for the feedback. At least they agree on something. They continue the last few moments of their walk in silence, Lancelot still not really sure how to talk to Arthur casually. Any progress they had made was complicated by his new relationship with Nimue. He certainly does not want to talk about that.

They get to the clearing, and he takes his place before the few hundred men that await his instruction. Lancelot calls Galahad over to make his request. The man looks at him in surprise initially, but nods his acceptance, his golden hair catching the early morning sunlight. The men set about their exercises, sweating from exertion as the minutes turn to hours.

“That’ll be all,” he announces, dismissing the men to eat their morning meal, as another wave of soldiers filter in. He looks over at Arthur, and the pair share a look before steeling themselves for more. “Here we go again.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot and Guinevere have a chat.

They go a week or so without any news of Cumber or the Trinity Guard, settling into a routine that almost allows for complacency. Lancelot has delegated instruction of two of the training sessions, one to Galahad, and the other to Arthur, so he is far less exhausted when he finds Nimue in the early afternoon each day. Often he just sits with her as she plans, offering his input on battle strategies. He does not have much experience with warfare on this scale, but he is trying his best, and he thinks he has not entirely made a fool of himself with Mordred’s men, at least according to Galahad. He had been spending more time with the man lately, often taking his midday repast with him and Arthur. They had a strange sort of friendship brewing, one built by their shared pursuit and responsibility. 

One afternoon, the three men sit under the shade of a tree, munching on bits of jerky and fruit. They swap stories of successes or failures in their respective exercises in between bites, Galahad laughing at Arthur’s report of a good-natured argument between some of his men. It’s nice, the easy comradery they share. Lancelot is especially glad for the way the tension between him and Arthur was starting to subside. 

Arthur stands, brushing his hands against the fabric of his trousers. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen,” he salutes, walking off with a barely concealed grin. Lancelot follows Arthur with his eyes, seeing him approach Guinevere. He smirks at Galahad, who had traced the man’s movement as well. He suspects the Viking commander had something to do with Arthur’s change of heart as of late.

“She’s an interesting one, that Viking princess,” Galahad says with a chuckle. 

“Princess?” Lancelot inquires, confused. 

“I suppose  _ the exiled daughter of Cumber the Ice King _ is more accurate these days, but it hardly rolls off the tongue,” Galahad jokes. 

“She’s Cumber’s daughter?” 

“Yeah, she came to Mordred a few years ago, seeking revenge on her father, I guess. Ultimately, she refused his help, but I could not tell you why.”

“What else do you know of her?” Lancelot’s curiosity is piqued. 

“Only that Mordred is obsessed with her. I could not say why, but some of the lads think it’s love.” Galahad leans in, voicing the next part quietly. “Personally, I do not think him capable of it, at least not without something else to gain.” 

Lancelot mulls over Galahad’s words. It is not shocking, this revelation of her connection to Cumber. Her desire for vengeance, her hatred made more sense now. However, her plans after Cumber’s death were now called into question. Was her alliance with the Fey simply a means to an end? Would she betray them if she stood to gain the throne? He did not think he could be comfortable around her until he had the answers to his questions.

It plagues him for the rest of the day, the thought that Guinevere might be hiding some sinister motivation. As luck would have it, he comes across her on his way to the creek. He scans the trees for prying eyes. Satisfied, he approaches her, questioning her without preamble.

“Why is it you want to kill your father?” Lancelot asks Guinevere, his hand gripping her bicep to keep her before him. 

He can tell she is affronted at his show of aggression. “I beg your pardon?”

“Cumber is your father, is he not?” 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

She nearly laughs that it is him, of all people, who figures it out. She’s certain this is the first time he’s spoken to her. He looks at her intently, prodding her to respond.

“Only in the loosest possible sense of the word,” Guinevere scoffs, a confirmation.

His grip tightens, still awaiting an answer to his initial question.

She does not particularly want to share this with him, but she doesn't think she has much of a choice. He was sure to run to the Fey Queen with whatever assumptions he had about her if she did not tell him the truth. “He pitted me and my sisters against one another from the very start.” As she continues, her temper flares. “The man cast me out when I was little more than a child because my sister Eydis had poisoned him against me. Anything I know about family, about loyalty, about love, I did not learn from him.”

He considers her, and she is comforted when he does not dig more deeply into her familial relationships. It was a bit heavy for a first conversation between tentative allies.

“So, you have Pendragon blood, then.” She sees him piecing together the implications of that fact. “Do you mean to take the throne?”

She knows what he means to ask.  _ Are you a threat to Nimue? What happens to our alliance when Cumber is dead?  _

“To be completely honest,” she starts, glaring at the hand that still clings to her arm. He drops it. “I have been so singularly focused on destroying Cumber for so long, I have not put much thought to what comes next.” 

He studies her for a long moment, but eventually he seems to decide to believe her. “Does Arthur know?” It was not the follow-up question she had been expecting.

“He does not.” It is not like she had purposefully tried to hide it, she was just not as forthright as she should have been. She has a feeling the former monk would find the distinction little more than meaningless nuance, so she keeps the thought to herself. Now, she has to deal with the consequences of her omission. She awaits his judgement.

He offers none. “Hate can be a powerful motivator,” he says, reflective, “but I’ve found love to be stronger.”

She bristles at his insinuation of her feelings. “You think because you lay beside a Queen, you are some kind of King?”

“Certainly not,” Lancelot retorts. “Not anymore than having Pendragon blood makes you fit to be a queen.”

She scoffs. “I am no threat to your lover, Lancelot.” His name sounds wrong coming from her mouth. 

He grabs her arm once more, his fingers digging in, his eyes blazing. “She is a Queen, and you will treat her with the respect she is due,” he threatens. 

She yanks her arm from his bruising grip. “I only meant to say that we can all figure out what comes next together, should the time come,” she clarifies, placating him. “Your Queen, your people have nothing to fear from me. I conceal no ulterior motive, I promise you.”

The fire fades from his eyes, replaced by a tired sort of relief. “I am glad we could come to this understanding,” he says, bringing an end to their very strange first encounter.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions

Guinevere lets out a shallow breath, anxious. After her conversation with Lancelot, she knows what she needs to do, she is just hesitant to do it. What she had developed with Arthur over the past several months was as close to family as she had experienced, and she did not want to ruin that with the truth of her blood. Between her and the Fey Queen, she was certain he would choose Nimue every time. And she wasn’t bitter. She wasn’t. Arthur was loyal, true to those he loved, even if they did not deserve it. She could not help but admire the way he held so steadfastly to his convictions. He inspired her to live the qualities her father lacked: honor, loyalty, love. If she was to do that, she needed to tell him the truth.

She finds him where she had expected, alongside Lancelot and Galahad. The men had been inseparable lately. She lays a hand on Arthur’s arm, cutting short his laughter. “Can I speak with you a moment?” 

He meets her eye, almost worried. “Of course.” He turns to his companions, excusing himself, “until the morning, then.” Lancelot gives her a look of respect; she nods at him in stoic acknowledgement.

They walk toward the creek, Guinevere intent to speak to him with relative privacy. He does not rush her, doesn’t inquire why she had pulled him away, waiting until she is ready. She sits in the sand, knowing he will follow. They remain in silence a moment, staring out at the water’s tranquil surface, reflecting the twilight. “There is something I must tell you.” It’s nearly a whisper, not the strong, direct voice she’d honed by necessity. 

He turns to her, worry resurfacing. “Has something happened?”

“I had a conversation with Lancelot yesterday.” His expression goes from worried to murderous in an instant. She places a hand on his arm to settle him. “He only told me what I already know, that I need to be honest with you.” She forces her breath out, the words following soon after. “Cumber is my father.” She doesn’t dare look at him, does not want to see the betrayal that is sure to steal the warmth from his eyes.

He laughs, “I know.” She turns to him, stunned. “I’ve known since the day we met.”

“You never said anything. To me, to Nimue. You know what this could mean for her, do you not?”

He nods. “A true Pendragon. With your father out of the way, and the Sword of Power in your grasp, Uther would not stand a chance.” He grasps her hand. “But, I trust you, Guinevere. I have from the very start. I know you would not betray us.”

She is struck by his faith in her. At the way he had trusted her, despite her very significant omission.  _ I do not deserve someone so good. _

“Love is not about what we deserve,” Arthur says, stroking her cheek softly. 

She nearly whimpers when she realizes she’s voiced the thought, but she is overtaken by the sweetness of his touch, of this moment. She leans into him, lets him melt her, ground her, she knows not what. 

His lips brush hers gently, but not hesitantly. He is as certain in this as he is in everything he does. Arthur draws her closer, giving her hope, and fear, and pain, and love with his kiss.

Guinevere does not know what the future holds for her, but she prays to every god there is that she gets to spend every day of it with the man beside her.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur sits with Galahad and Lancelot, Guinevere tucked into his side. They had met to discuss training, but that quickly devolved into far less serious topics. Arthur felt  _ good,  _ at home in a way he never had, with the woman beside him and the men across from him. Men he respected, was proud to call friends. It was an odd realization. He was not sure when he had gone from hating Lancelot to thinking of him as a friend, but he knew it was true. The resentment and jealousy had faded, admiration and respect taking their place.

When the group separates for the night, he fully intends to follow Guinevere back to her tent, but he finds himself chasing down a departing Lancelot, promising Guinevere that he would find her soon. “Hey!” he calls out, grabbing Lancelot by the upper arm to stop him. The man turns, as though expecting a fight. Arthur laughs, dropping his grip on the man, “relax, I only want to talk to you.” Lancelot’s shoulders settle slightly, but he still does not seem relaxed. “I know we have not always seen eye to eye in the past,” Arthur begins. Lancelot lets out the shortest of laughs at the understatement. “I just wanted to tell you that I think it is time we move beyond all that.”

Lancelot looks at him, disbelief coloring his face, “can we truly do that?”

“Look, what you have done, and whatever personal rivalry was between us is in the past. I know you to be a good man, one who protects those he loves, and fights with honor. I would trust you implicitly to shield my back in battle, and I hope you would trust me to do the same.” 

It seems he has stunned Lancelot into silence, a rare feat these days. There is something alight in Lancelot’s eyes, something he has never seen before. The man only nods, as though not trusting himself to speak. He does not need to; Arthur understands. “Goodnight, then, friend.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot cannot help the smile that breaks across his face as he heads to his tent for the night. He feels lighter, like he is now truly welcome in this place that had become his home. He is honored by Arthur’s forgiveness, acceptance. He knows he could never deserve it, but he relishes it all the same.  _ Friend.  _ How desperate he had been for that. For belonging. He’s found it here, and it feels a lot like salvation.

He opens the flap to his tent, finding Nimue engrossed in her maps. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, eyes squinting at the parchment, waiting here for him at the end of the day. “Lancelot,” she says, smiling up at him. His heart swells at the simplicity, the domesticity of the moment.

“I love you.” He hardly knows what the words mean as they come out of his mouth, but he knows with every part of him that they are true. Nimue rises suddenly, her eyes widening, and he worries instantly that he has overstepped, misinterpreted what this is between them. “I’m sorry, I--”

She puts a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t apologize. You simply caught me off guard, is all.”

He remembers the conversation they’d had in the cave what seemed like ages ago, when things had started to change between them. “You, off guard? It must be the end of days.”

She traces the scars beneath his eyes, delicately, tenderly, “then you are exactly where you should be. By my side.” Nimue stands on the tips of her toes, pressing her lips to his softly. “I love you, too, Lancelot. From now, until the end of my days.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inching slowly toward the end. Also, it will never not be funny when autocorrect tries to change "Cumber" to "cucumber"

Merlin pores over the ancient tomes, finding nothing he does not already know. There was only one way to destroy the Sword of Power: melt it down with Fey Fire. It was some small assurance, knowing that Mordred would never be able to accomplish this without his assistance. He possessed one of the last traces of Fey Fire, and the Leper King would not bow to the whims of a mere human. And so, he delayed, telling Mordred he was closer than ever to finding a way to rid the world of that cursed sword, Excalibur. A shiver runs through him just at the thought of the name, his right side aching from sternum to thigh where the blade had become one with his flesh. Now, the blade that had twisted him up, turned him into a man he hardly recognized, had its grip on his daughter. It’s almost poetic, destiny’s sense of humor, Merlin thinks, taking a long drink from the goblet before him.

Mordred enters the room, making his way to where Merlin sits, surrounded by books and libation. “How goes the search?” the usurper inquires, taking a place across from Merlin at the table, pouring himself some wine. 

“Still nothing,” Merlin replies, continuing to flip through pages. 

Mordred drinks. “I am sure all will be revealed in time.” Merlin remains certain Mordred does not suspect him, even if he does speak so mysteriously, every phrase a riddle for his interlocutor to puzzle over. “I actually did not come to speak with you about that pursuit,” Mordred continues, taking another sip from his cup. 

“No?” Merlin questions, curious.

“Cumber’s daughter has returned from Rome with the best of the Church’s warriors. They move upon the Fey as we speak.”

Merlin straightens at that, worried at the development. 

“I sent word to Guinevere as soon as I heard the news,” Mordred informs him, and he exhales in relief.

“What of Cumber?” Merlin asks, concerned about the northern man who meant to take Uther’s throne. 

Mordred’s eyes narrow at the mention of the Pendragon heir. “He remains where he is, at present.”

Merlin nods. “His real fight is with Uther, after all. He cares not what happens to the Fey as long as he acquires the Sword.”

“He will never wield the Sword,” Mordred declares, as though the matter is completely under his control.  _ Maybe it is,  _ Merlin thinks, wondering not for the first time what Mordred was truly after.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue stares at the missive in her hands, reality settling in like an unwelcome guest. “In a week’s time?” She questions, despite the countless times her eyes had reviewed the phrase. 

“Aye,” Guinevere affirms, nodding solemnly. 

The woman had burst into her tent early that morning with news, waking her and Lancelot. Nimue had rushed to cover herself, cocooning her body in the bed’s blanket while throwing Lancelot’s discarded trousers at his sleep-addled face. Satisfactorily covered, Nimue turned to the Viking intruder. “What is it?”

“Apologies, Fey Queen. But I thought you would want to see this.” Guinevere produced a rolled parchment. “Mordred sent word; Eydis and the Trinity Guard are on their way.” Nimue stared at the words. It was finally happening. 

“And what of Cumber?” Lancelot asks. 

Guinevere scoffs, making no attempt to conceal her contempt for the man, her father. “According to Mordred, he is to remain safe in his camp, letting Eydis do his bidding like the lackey she is.” 

Nimue considers her words. To Cumber, she was little more than an obstacle to overcome in his path to the throne, the witch who possessed the Sword he needed to cement his claim. “We outnumber them, do we not?” Nimue asks, putting on a confidence she does not feel. 

“We do,” Guinevere starts, “but I would not underestimate Eydis. She can be ruthless when it serves her, which is always.” Undisguised hatred flares in her eyes at the mention of her sister. 

“Or the Trinity Guard,” Lancelot speaks up, reminding them of the greater threat. 

Nimue keeps her voice optimistic, even as worry and doubt begin to swirl in her mind. “Let’s not despair. We may come out on top, yet.”

The Viking princess appears to be considering something. “What do we gain, exactly, even with a victory?” Guinevere questions. “Cumber lives, an army at his disposal still, not any less determined to acquire the Sword. We will have tired out our forces, decimated our army in a meaningless battle.”

It is a truth Nimue had not wanted to consider. She could not believe that for all her efforts she had led her people to disaster once more. “And what are we supposed to do instead? They are practically at our door!”

“We kill Cumber,” Guinevere says, as though it is a simple solution.

“How do you propose we do that?” Lancelot laughs. “An army stands between us and him.”

“We send an assassin.” 

“He’ll kill you on sight,” Nimue says, discouraging Guinevere’s rash plan. 

“Not me,” Guinevere replies, exchanging a meaningful look with Lancelot. “Him,” she nods in his direction. “Who better to kill a king than the invisible man?”

Nimue sees his jaw tick at Guinevere’s description of him, but he offers no opposition; she does. “Absolutely not!”

“It’s a good plan, Nimue,” Lancelot starts, placing a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. She was not assured. “It’s bold, unexpected.”

“They will never see it coming,” Guinevere tries to persuade her. “And with Cumber gone, we can both negotiate with Uther, leading our people into a new age of peace.” 

It is a tempting thought to be sure, a future where they are not constantly living in fear of innumerable threats. But, at what cost? Guinevere seems to understand where her mind has gone. “I’ll leave you to discuss it,” she says, making her way to the exit, “but we must act soon.”

When Guinevere has gone, Nimue turns her attention fully on Lancelot. “You cannot do this,” she pleads. 

“You doubt me?” He asks, looking at her, curious. 

“Never,” Nimue responds, firm. “But we need you here.”

“Arthur, Guinevere, and Galahad can more than manage in my absence.” It is more of an observation than an attempt to convince her. 

“ _ I  _ need you here,” she tells him, knowing there is no observation, no substitution he could offer that would appease her. “You have been my strength these past few months and I don’t know if I can do this without you.” It did not feel like weakness, admitting the thought to him.

He brings a hand to her face, such tenderness in his touch, in his eyes. “I have seen grown men waver at things you only blink at. You have all the strength you need within yourself, my Queen.” He smiles at her, so achingly sweet. “Let me do this for you, for our people.”

Nimue feels the tears springing from her eyes, staining her cheeks. By the Hidden, she did not know if her tears came at the thought of losing him or the way he had such unwavering faith in her, loved her so wholly. More than anything, she wants to share with him the days of peace Guinevere had alluded to. Perhaps that is why she nods, encouraging him, despite her fears. He kisses her gently, tasting the tears between them. “I will return to you, my love,” Lancelot promises her, a whisper, but certain, nonetheless. 


	21. Chapter 21

It is agonizing, lying in wait for the enemy to attack. It’s made all the more unbearable without Lancelot there to help calm her frantic mind. It had been five days since they had received Mordred’s missive, five days since he had departed. It was only a matter of time before the lookouts came back with news of an advancing army. There was nothing to do but wait. Fey and man alike were ready to respond to any threat at the drop of a hat. The children and those unable to fight had made their way north two days earlier, where they would be safe from the forces approaching from the east, by the sea. Squirrel had gone with them, ultimately, after a heart-wrenching argument. 

_ “I can fight!” he exclaimed. Nimue looked at him, floored by his strength, yet saddened that he had need of it at so young an age. “I’ve been training with Lancelot! I can do it, Nimue.” He wanted her to believe in him so desperately. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in him, it was that she could not stand to see any harm come to him, not when she could prevent it. She wished Lancelot were here; he would be able to get through to Squirrel, the boy who idolized him.  _

_ She knelt at his side, her hands on his shoulders in a way she remembers her mother holding her as a child. “I need you strong for all the battles to come, my brave knight. Right now, our people need a fierce protector. Can you be that, for me?”  _

_ He was reluctant, disappointed to be missing the action, but he took the charge from his Queen with a solemn nod, a bow. “I will not let you down, Nimue.” _

_ “I know you won’t, Squirrel,” she said, tears threatening to fall as she wrapped her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. She released him after a long moment. “We’ll see each other soon, okay?” _

_ He nodded and turned to follow the others. _

Now, she has nothing to occupy her time and her mind but worry. Worry for her people, and Mordred’s men. Worry for the children, the refugees. Worry for the man she loved, sent off to assassinate a king. Her hand shakes as she accepts a bowl of stew from a Fey maiden, considering every way in which harm could befall Lancelot. Nimue feels a hand on hers, steadying the bowl. “He’ll be okay, Nimue,” Guinevere says. “We all will.” It is unexpected, this reassurance from the ever-stoic Viking princess. 

“You don’t know that.” Nobody but the Hidden knew, and they seemed content to keep it to themselves.

Guinevere laughs, and it’s jarring. “Maybe not, but I’m trying this new thing,” her eyes land briefly on Arthur, sitting with Galahad not far away. “Optimism.”

Nimue’s mind flashes to all they stand to lose. “That seems impossible at the moment.”

“It is all the more powerful in the face of impossibility,” Guinevere counters, letting go of Nimue’s hand. She shakes off the introspection, the philosophizing, but the statement lingers in Nimue’s mind. 

“Now, come. Sit with us.” Nimue is not familiar enough with Guinevere to know if it is a command or a request, but either way, she is grateful for the company. She follows Guinevere to where Arthur and Galahad sit, shoveling mouthfuls of stew into their mouths between anecdotes.

“Remember that time Lancelot just appeared from nowhere and knocked Lars on his arse for complaining about the lack of ‘real fighting’?” 

Galahad nearly sputters broth. “It was as if he had seen a phantom, the Monk popping up like that.” He snickers, “the poor fellow could hardly walk the next day for all the ‘real fighting’ Lancelot showed him.”

Guinevere settles down beside Arthur, a smile crossing her features at the men’s antics. Nimue sits down near Galahad, her supper going largely untouched as she observes the dynamic among her commanders. It was so easy, comfortable between them, like they were bonded in a way stronger than blood. She was glad for it, the way Lancelot was a part of this...family. It made her feel closer to him, sitting with those who called him friend. 

“Ah, the Fey Queen graces us with her presence,” Galahad teases, good-naturedly. 

She cannot help but smile, recalling everything Lancelot has told her about the fair-haired mercenary. “Nimue,” she corrects, with levity.

“Well, Nimue,” Galahad begins, slightly more serious, “it is an honor to fight for you, alongside your people.” Despite his easygoing, joking manner moments before, Nimue knows his words to be true. She also knows that she has his respect because of the foundation that Arthur and Lancelot had built. How fortunate she was to have such support from these men. 

“As much as I hate to agree with Galahad about anything,” Guinevere says, a look of friendly annoyance in the man’s direction, “my people and I are honored to fight for the Fey now, and for whatever time the gods bless us with in the future.” Guinevere had already promised her loyalty after they’d had a long discussion about her true identity and a potential claim to the Pendragon throne, but this felt more meaningful, more personal.

It is then that Arthur speaks, the man who had stood by her from the beginning. “All I have to my name is my sword, but I give it gladly in your service. To the Fey Queen,” Arthur says, raising his bowl in toast in the absence of a goblet. 

“To us,” Nimue replies, raising her own bowl. “May we live to see the world in all of its beauty, to share our days in harmony.” Surrounded by friends, by those who offered true support, Nimue thinks that maybe Guinevere was right about optimism after all.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot travels on foot, to better avoid detection. The path to the north and east is largely under cover of trees, making it easier to escape notice than it would be traveling on the King’s Road. Cumber’s army approaches from the east; he can feel the marching feet like a heartbeat from the earth.  _ Be with them,  _ he prays, feeling like he has abandoned his people in their hour of need.

It’s familiar, but not in a pleasant way, traveling alone, tracking down someone he means to kill. He had come to rely on others, cherish their company, so to return to what feels much like his former ways seems wrong. In living with the Fey, he had learned to accept who he truly was, not an abomination, a demon, meant only for death, but someone worthy and capable of love, of goodness. He had come to be a part of something much larger than himself, and he did not have to beg for acceptance, to torture himself to obtain it. He is Fey, through and through, and if killing one man is what is necessary to allow his people to live in peace, without the fear of being hunted, slaughtered because they were different, it is a price he is happy to pay.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Iris walks alongside the smug Viking princess to the Fey camp. They mean to offer one last chance for the Fey Queen to surrender the Sword. Of course, the Trinity Guard were under orders to slaughter every last demon, even if Cumber’s daughter was satisfied with their terms of surrender. She did not think it would come to that; the Fey Queen was stubborn--stubborn enough to evade certain death--she would not surrender so easily. It would be war.

They are greeted by archers, arrows trained on them, following their every movement as they approach the Fey Queen.

“Surrender yourself and the Sword,” Eydis instructs, “and we will let your people live.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

The scouts had rushed back to camp, announcing the arrival of Cumber’s forces. They had stopped only a few miles away, and now their commander and a representative from the Trinity Guard made their way to camp, likely to discuss the terms of engagement. Nimue stands, confident, ready to greet her adversary with Guinevere and Arthur at her back. 

Before she can speak, Guinevere’s sister steps forward, addressing her. “Surrender yourself and the Sword, and we will let your people live.”

Nimue had certainly thought about it before, trading her life for her people’s. And she would do it in an instant if she knew it would guarantee their safety, but somehow, she knew it was her destiny to cling to the Sword still, to use it in defense of the Fey. “I will never surrender.”

“Then you will die alongside the demons you call yourself the Queen of,” says the cloaked figure, hidden behind a gold mask. There is something familiar about the voice, feminine, but angry, bitter. She feels a twinge in her chest where her skin is scarred.  _ Iris.  _

“You’ve already tried to kill me once, to no avail,” Nimue says, flippant, showing no fear. She can practically see the contempt emanating from the girl.

“This time, I will pierce you through the heart and watch as the demon blood drains from your lifeless body,” Iris spits, venomous.

Galahad steps forward, his large form towering over the smallest member of the Trinity Guard. “Try it and I’ll wear your head like a necklace,” he threatens. 

Nimue puts a hand on his arm, drawing him back, equally disturbed and touched by his defense of her. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Eydis nods, accepting her terms. “Until the morning.” Her attention moves to Guinevere, as Iris turns to depart. “A shame. I had hoped to kill you today, sister.”

Guinevere meets her eye, fearless. “Small mercies, I suppose. Now I have all night to think of the most fitting way to rid the world of your filth.” She traces a half-circle along her chest from one edge of her collarbone to the other. “At the moment, I’m partial to Sir Galahad’s idea.” 

Eydis gives her sister one more icy stare before turning to follow Iris out of their camp.

Nimue lets out a long sigh, relieved the confrontation has come to an end. It was only a matter of hours now, until the fate of the Fey would be determined.  _ Be with me,  _ she begs the Hidden, preparing for the battle to come. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More character moments than action, as I have no idea how to write fights, lol.

Nimue feels like a child playing a part. She knows nothing of war, and yet, she marches alongside an army, preparing to face a most formidable foe. She feels a hand on her back, a reassurance, helping to settle her rising panic. “We can do this, Nimue,” Arthur encourages her. “There will be no more running, no more fear, after today.” Oh, to live in a world where that was true! She looks down at the Sword in her hand, looks out at the destiny she has chosen. The world was changing; with what strength, what influence she has, she means to show her people peace and prosperity, not the fear that had become so normal for them. 

Their rhythmic marching comes to an end, and she looks out in the expanse, met with clean lines of black and gold, and a sizable Viking contingent. She breathes in, centering herself. There is no place for panic, for anything other than strength here. Nimue turns to face her own army, taking great confidence in the tightly organized multitudes. They may be victorious, yet. 

She paces along the front line, knowing she must speak. This time, there is no awkwardness about it. There is a passion, a love for her people that burns inside of her, and she lets it guide her. “For too long we have hidden and run from men who say we do not belong in this world,” she yells. “Today, we run no longer, fear no longer!” She hears the shouts of Fey and man alike. “We fight not only for ourselves, but so that our children, and their children after them do not have to know suffering and death as intimately as we have.” Nimue looks out at the Church’s soldiers once more, shrouded in darkness. “Today,” she points her sword toward the Trinity Guard, “we introduce those men to the God they are so desperate to serve.” The cries of her warriors nearly drown out her voice as she prepares to lead the charge. She raises her sword in the air, standing firm before the men and women who follow her. She will not disappoint them, so long as there is breath left in her. “On me!” Nimue declares, stepping forward to determine the fate of the Fey, an army at her back.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Lancelot finds Cumber’s camp with little difficulty. The Viking warriors who remain are boisterous and careless, drinking all day and night with little regard for security. And why should they care, certain as Cumber was that the Sword of Power would soon be in his possession? Their arrogance works in his favor. After observing a day in the life of Cumber’s Viking soldiers, Lancelot determines that he will strike at night, when the drunken stupor falls most heavily on the camp.

He waits for cover of darkness some distance away from the camp. It is boring, being on his own. At one time he had lived for these moments alone; it was when he had done some of his best work. Now, he finds himself missing Percival’s endless chattering, Arthur’s laugh. The calm that Nimue brought him. He thinks back to the day they met, the dreams of drowning, of death, the way he had breathed life into the Wolf Blood Witch, his enemy, the first person to find him worthy of love. He thought he had saved her that day, but it was Nimue who had saved him. It was her who had given him the chance to discover that there was more to him than death and destruction. There was goodness, loyalty, honor. 

Maybe he could never be redeemed, whatever that truly meant, but he no longer feared hell, craved heaven; God had given him something far sweeter to strive for in this life: a Queen, a people, a family. What had been lost, corrupted, had been renewed, purified. He takes pleasure in his purpose, knowing that he serves God more faithfully now than he ever could have under Carden. It is that thought on which he focuses as he waits to kill a king.

When night falls, Lancelot sneaks into their camp, finding the king’s tent easily, unguarded. He finds Cumber asleep, resting peacefully with all the assurance of a man who means not to suffer defeat. Lancelot puts a blade to the king’s neck, the touch of cold steel waking him. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Iris plunges her sword through the heart of a demon, a righteous fury boiling her blood. She tears the mask from her face as she sees the Fey Queen fighting with an otherworldly power a short distance away. She was God’s wrath, his judgement, and the Wolf Blood Witch would not escape the fate that awaits all demons, not again. 

She stalks over in the direction of the Wolf Blood Witch, servants of God falling all around her with each stroke of the Devil’s Tooth. Iris would show the world a great mercy, ridding it of this sorceress who inflicts untold pain and destruction with her cursed sword. And, if it brings a smile to her face to know that hers is the last face the witch sees as the life drains from her eyes, well it’s only because she is so devoted to serving God.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Squirrel looks on at the battle below, perched high in a tree with his bow. He knows Nimue will be angry he came back, but the others are safe, hidden in a secret place, and he is a knight, after all. He had scurried up the trunk early this morning as an entire army of scary gold-faced soldiers marched toward his people. He shudders at the memory of him and Lancelot barely escaping alive the last time he’d seen those ugly golden masks. Without Lancelot here, Nimue needs all the help she can get. 

He watches the chaos below, taking aim to protect the Fey and their allies from threats he alone can see from his vantage point.

Squirrel sees Nimue cross blades with a small figure in a black robe. As the two exchange blows, the boy can see the cloaked figure wears no mask. It’s a girl. He squints, just making out her features. It’s Iris.  _ That… She…  _ He had befriended her, taught her to shoot, and she had used her new skills to try to kill Nimue. He supposes it is a good thing he was not the best of teachers, or Nimue would not be alive today. 

He nocks an arrow, draws, tries to aim, but they are moving too much and too quickly. He does not want to chance hitting Nimue instead of the little traitor. Squirrel waits patiently, hyper-aware of the pair’s every move, knowing the perfect moment will come.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

A dagger at his throat, and the Ice King is nothing but cool, collected. “Ah, the demon son of Father Carden. You think by killing me you can save the Fey and escape damnation?” Cumber inquires.

Lancelot has made his peace with God about the matter of redemption. Besides, he is here to kill a king, not have a philosophical debate. “Nothing can wrench my soul from hell,” he says with a shrug, moving the blade across the king’s throat with ease. “Send my regards.”

Cumber has no response, too busy choking on his own blood. Lancelot moves the dagger up to his beard, removing the long, beaded braid, a mark of his success.

He does not stick around to see the Vikings discover their king slain in his sleep. Lancelot is anxious to get back to Nimue, to his friends. By the time he returns, the battle will have already been decided. He hopes, prays that they win the day. He refuses to let his mind consider arriving at a quiet camp, having to search amongst the dead for her body.  _ No.  _ She is strong and destined for something earth-shattering. This would not be her end.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue keeps her gaze fixed on the girl before her, the one who had very nearly succeeded in killing her in the not-so-distant past. Iris twirls her sword with a flourish even Lancelot would envy. “Let’s hope it takes when I kill you this time,” Iris says, eyes flaring with anger, hatred.

It’s clear the girl had been training hard in their time apart, her moves quick, practiced. Thanks to her time spent sparring with Lancelot, Nimue knows what to look for, how to stay steps ahead without giving away any advantages. She strikes hard at the girl, a flood of anger, of death washing over her as her hands hold firm to the Sword. Iris ducks out of the way, counter-striking with a blow Nimue deflects with ease. They go back and forth like that, neither able to best the other as the minutes drag on.

For all her training, hours of wielding the Sword have nearly drained her of strength. Iris sees this and takes advantage, striking fast with a string of decisive blows. Nimue blocks, narrowly, one blow after another, but finally, even the slight girl’s force is too much for her. She falls to the ground, Sword scattered, and she can do nothing but await death. Iris looks down upon her triumphantly, knowing that with her second chance, she will truly end the Wolf Blood Witch. 

Nimue’s mind flashes to the last time Iris had tried to kill her. She had been saved, by a man she had thought was her enemy. She wishes she could see Lancelot one last time, to tell him that he had brought her back to life for something other than death, but it’s not to be. She thanks the Hidden for all they have done, begging that they watch over Lancelot in her absence. 

She awaits the final blow, her eyes closed, resolved. When it does not come, Nimue opens her eyes, greeted by a look of stunned pain on the nun’s face, an arrow lodged firmly in her heart. Iris falls before her, angry, in pain, even in her final moments. Nimue looks wildly about, wondering who she had to thank for the arrow, but she sees no one. She falls onto her back in the dirt once more, spent. It’s then she sees him, Squirrel, perched high up in a tree at the clearing’s edge. She laughs, despite herself, supposing it was a good thing the boy was so stubborn and had refused to listen to her. 

Arthur approaches after a moment and lends her a hand, pulling her up from the ground. She nods her thanks. Her eyes take in the bodies that litter the earth, Fey and man alike. “Let’s finish this,“ she says, righteous anger renewing her strength as she collects the Sword of Power.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Guinevere faces down her sister, finally. Eydis, like the coward she is, had waited with the rearguard, letting Guinevere tire herself out, warding off hours of never-ending attacks from the Trinity Guard. Now, surrounded by piles of bodies, exhausted to her core, Guinevere at last has the chance to exact her final revenge on her sister. 

She raises her spear, deflecting a blow from Eydis’ blade as her sister strikes with a short sword in her other hand. Guinevere twirls her spear, blocking that strike, narrowly. “You could never beat me when we were children,” Eydis taunts, “nothing has changed.”

But she had changed. She’s been hardened by her anger, been molded by it, grown from it. “We’ll see,” Guinevere challenges, advancing toward her sister, threatening. 

She fights valiantly, dedicating every ounce of energy she has left against Eydis, but it is not enough. Eydis knocks the spear from her hand and kicks her to the ground, defeated.

Her back in the blood-soaked dirt, Guinevere looks up at the smug face of her sister, marking her failure. She waits, knowing the end is near. Eydis taunts her even in this, refusing to make it quick. “Stand,” she commands. “It is no fun for me to kill you like I would a wounded animal.”

She struggles to her feet, nearly there when--“Guinevere!” she hears Nimue shout over the din of clashing steel and the wails of wounded men. In a second, the Sword of Power is flying through the air toward her, and she catches it, the most natural of instincts. When the hilt hits her hand, her body sings with an energizing fury, a single-minded vengeance. Before Eydis can even consider a defense, Guinevere has cut her open from neck to navel. Her sister falls to her knees, blood pouring from her body like a waterfall. 

She stands over a defeated Eydis, sweet vindication coursing through her veins. The Sword still in her hand, she hears whispers, suggestions of further violence she is all but compelled to employ. “Mercy, sister,” Eydid begs, choking on blood.

“What was it you said about killing a wounded animal?” Guinevere reminds her, prodding her wound just slightly. 

Eydis screams at the torture, her eyes desperate. “Please, Gwen.”

As much as she would relish slowly torturing Eydis to death--she deserves it, after all--something in her softens at the name she has not heard since her mother died. She would not be the monster that Eydis and Cumber had created. She is strong, but what good would that do her in the long run without honor? Nodding, she puts the Sword through her sister’s heart, giving her the mercy she had begged for. As Guinevere removes the blade from her chest, Eydis falls to the ground, death taking her.

No longer engrossed in her quest for revenge--a strange feeling--Guinevere looks up to find the battle all but finished around her. Arthur and Nimue approach, and Guinevere is quick to return the Sword to the Fey Queen. From the look of understanding that passes over her features, Guinevere knows that Nimue always feels the temptation to violence, to cruelty the Sword had inspired in her. And she wielded it anyway, for the sake of her people? Would give it away to save someone, who with it, was a threat to her? There are no words that can adequately convey her profound gratitude, so she embraces Nimue instead, her breathing slowing down eventually as she clings to the Fey Queen. 

She withdraws after a moment, seeing Galahad approach over Nimue’s shoulder. “We have driven what remains of the zealots back to their ships,” he announces, relishing the victory, despite his exhaustion. “Your people,” he turns to her, “march back to Cumber’s camp as we speak to give him the news of his beloved daughter.”

Guinevere meets Nimue’s eye, knowing exactly where her thoughts have gone. They had won the day, but the victory would not mean much if Lancelot did not emerge victorious, as well. “It all depends on Lancelot, now,” Guinevere says, holding tightly to Nimue’s hand in reassurance.

“The fate of the Fey in the hands of the Weeping Monk,” Arthur observes with a laugh. “Now, who could have predicted that?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too underwhelming! I'm so glad this is out of the way so I can move forward with some more fun stuff! 
> 
> Also, I'm kind of obsessed with Guinevere now.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reunited at last.

Lancelot returns to find the battle won, arriving to the best sort of chaos. Fey and man alike dance and drink and cheer. He had been worried, trekking through the field of bodies on his way back, but as he’d gotten closer to camp, the boisterousness gave no indication of defeat. He looks desperately for Nimue, needing to know that she is safe. After several moments of scanning the crowds, anxiety growing when he does not see her familiar form, he finds her, with Guinevere, Galahad, and Arthur. Without another thought, Lancelot races over to her, picking her up from the ground in his suffocating embrace. He spins her around, holding tighter still as relief and what feels a lot like pure happiness flood his senses at being with her once again. Finally, he sets her feet back upon the ground, every bit of love he has for her in his eyes as he looks down at her. He never wishes to leave her again.

His friends await his news, so he steps back from Nimue, reluctantly. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve the evidence of his success. “The King is dead,” Lancelot utters, dropping the braided lock of Cumber’s hair at Guinevere’s feet. “Long live the Queen.” 

She bends down slowly, her fingers closing hesitantly around the severed hair. She passes it from one hand to the other, testing it, considering it. Her stoic look disappears as she thrusts a fist into the air, yelling, “Cumber is dead!”

The camp explodes in celebration, this victory following so quickly after their triumph in battle. Hope is palpable around him. For once, it seems, the Fey are close to a life of peace, free from the pursuit of enemies. All that remains is to negotiate a truce with Uther.  _ One battle at a time, _ he thinks, accepting a cup from Arthur.

It is late that night when they return to their tent, exhausted, and a little inebriated. Lancelot had never been one to drink to excess, an act Carden had listed as a sin, but if there was ever an appropriate occasion, it was today. 

He sheds his cloak, dropping it on the floor beside the bed. A hand to her cheek, he leans in to bestow a kiss on her forehead. “I am so glad you are safe, Nimue.”

She wraps her arms around his waist, looking up at him with a sweet smile and loving eyes. God above, he’d never tire of that. “I have you to thank for that.” He raises a brow in confusion. “Without your training, I would only have lasted minutes with the Sword.” He looks down, embarrassed. He’d only done the very least he could have. It truly is a miracle that she had let him stay, had grown to love him.

She squeezes the skin at his side with a laugh, “I suppose I also have you to thank for encouraging Squirrel’s stubbornness.” She grows slightly distant with her next words. “He saved my life, after all.”

He tilts her chin up, worry creeping in, even though she is safe and sound before him. “What happened?”

“Remember the day we met?” she asks. As if he could ever forget. He nods. “The arrows were a gift from one of the nuns at the abbey. She hid amongst us for weeks, and when it seemed like we might make it out okay, she swiftly dispelled that hope.” His hand moves to the scar on her shoulder reflexively. “She joined the Trinity Guard, apparently.” His eyes rise in surprise. She laughs, sharing his disbelief. “I know. And she was not too thrilled to find me still alive, thanks to you.” She runs a hand down his back affectionately. “We met again, after hours of wielding the Sword. She would have ended me, if not for Squirrel. He snuck back after I sent him away with those unable to fight, shot her straight through the heart.”

Lancelot feels thankfulness swell in his chest, along with love for the boy who had become his family. “He is a knight, after all,” he says, kissing her gently through his laughter.

“I feared I would never see you again,” Nimue whispers against his lips, and he sobers instantly.

His hands frame her face, stroking her cheeks in reassurance, as her eyes meet his. “As long as there is breath in my lungs, my love, I will never leave you.” Lancelot wipes the tears that spring from her eyes, meaning every word. They stay like that for a while, as though moving will render the promise null. Finally, too exhausted to stand any longer, Nimue collapses on the bed. He settles behind her, holding her tightly. 

She says nothing for a few moments, and Lancelot is certain she is asleep. It is that, and the sheer absurdity of the thought that catches him off guard when she speaks. “What if we were joined?”

For some reason, he cannot quite believe that she could truly want this. “Nimue…” he starts.

“Did you not mean it, what you promised me?” she asks, doubting herself, doubting him. 

“I did,” he replies passionately. “I do. It’s just...you don’t want this with me. I’m not…”

“I want everything with you, Lancelot. Every moment until my last.” She rolls over to face him, then. “I’ve been to dozens of Joinings in my life, but I never let myself hope that I could have that someday.” Her every fear, insecurity is in her eyes and he hates that anyone ever made her feel she was unworthy of love. “Until you.”

His heart palpitates, in fear, in disbelief, in anticipation. Could this be real? Could he truly have a family? Before she can think better of it, Lancelot blurts out, “yes!”

She touches a hand to the ashen mark of his people, hesitant as she asks, “yes?”

He brings his lips to hers in the whisper of a kiss. “Nothing in this world could ever make me happier, Nimue,” he tells her with absolute conviction.

At her responding smile, bright as the afternoon sun, he kisses her in earnest. Exhaustion forgotten, Lancelot shows her just how much he loves her.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Merlin stands before Uther, curious as to the meaning of his summons. His curiosity only grows when Mordred strides into the room moments later, standing beside him. He’d had a sort of premonition a few days earlier, knowing that the Fey had prevailed against the combined forces of Cumber and the Church. He’d rejoiced at Nimue’s safety, her success. A foreign sense of pride--dare he say, paternal in nature--had blossomed in his chest at her accomplishments. She had done far more for the good of their people with that Sword than he ever could have. Now, he wonders how Uther means to respond to this Fey victory.

“We’ve summoned you here with news,” Uther begins, stating the obvious. Merlin and Mordred look at him, expectantly. “It seems Cumber is dead,” Uther says, barely containing a gleeful smile.

Merlin is taken aback at the unexpected news. The greatest threat to Uther’s reign, dead? “How?” he wonders aloud. Mordred awaits the King’s response with similar interest. 

“Killed in his sleep, we’re told,” Uther says, adjusting the crown that sits atop his head.

“And his army?” Mordred inquires, trying to elucidate the current state of affairs.

“Returning to the North, leaderless, as we speak,” Uther responds, with all the excitement of a child playing with a new toy. “His only remaining heir was killed in the battle with the Fey.”

For a moment, it seems like Mordred wants to argue that fact, but ultimately, he remains silent. Merlin catalogues that away for later, knowing there is a more specific reason Uther has summoned the two of them here, now. With the would-be usurper dead, and the Trinity Guard sent back to Rome, ally-less, the Fey Queen is all that stands between Uther and Excalibur. “And what of the Fey?” Merlin asks Uther, fearing the increasingly unpredictable King’s response. 

Uther considers him for a moment, his eyes moving briefly to Mordred before returning to settle on Merlin. “We suppose that if the Fey Queen swears fealty to us, she and what remains of her people can live in our kingdom with nothing to fear from us.”

“And the Sword?” Mordred questions, asking what Merlin is desperate to know.

“We’ve no need of it, now that there is no one to threaten our claim to the throne,” Uther shrugs, “she can keep it, for all we care.” Merlin sighs in relief at the knowledge that Uther means not to incite violence against his daughter. That relief is short-lived, however, when he sees the calculating look on Mordred’s face. Before he can think too much of it, Uther is speaking once again. “You will go to the Fey Queen, both of you,” Uther commands, motioning to the two men, “and tell her of our new arrangement.”

Mordred bows in deference. “Of course, your Majesty.” At his full height once more, Mordred continues, “if it pleases you, I would like to volunteer my forces to root out any remaining zealots in your borders to ensure the lasting success of this arrangement with the Fey.”

Merlin raises a brow, skeptical of the mercenary’s generosity. Uther does not seem to have any qualms about the offer, expressing his profound gratitude for all Mordred has done on his behalf.

Dismissed, Merlin follows Mordred out of the great hall, worrying what Mordred intends, this man who makes promises that cannot possibly stem from his concern for the greater good.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Guinevere lies beside Arthur as the sun rises over the quiet camp. She had hardly slept the night before, mulling over the fact that she had lost vengeance as her main source of motivation. With Cumber and Eydis dead, the overwhelming need for revenge, for vindication no longer consumes her, drives her. She almost does not know who she is without the anger, but then she catches a glimpse of Arthur’s face, peaceful in sleep. With him, she is learning. She smiles at the thought, knowing that with each day spent with him, she’s grown gentler, truer. Guinevere feels more like a Queen worth following now, and for more than just her facade of ferocity and strength.

Her happiness sours a moment later when she remembers that she will have to leave soon, return home to lay claim to her birthright, her throne. Now that it is in her grasp, she finds herself hesitant to leave this place that feels more like home than where she was born. And so, Guinevere snuggles into Arthur’s side, putting any thoughts of responsibility and political obligation away to enjoy what feels like a well-earned comfort.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Nimue wakes early, feeling rested despite only sleeping a few hours. She dresses quietly, careful not to wake Lancelot. She wraps herself in his cloak, protection against the chill of the morning air as she makes her way through the tranquil camp. Without any direction, she finds herself standing amongst the orchard, feeling happiness and magic swirl in her soul as she takes in its abundant fruitfulness. 

She has been blessed beyond measure, in this life she had once considered to be a curse. She finds herself thankful for the Sword, despite all the pain it has brought her. Without it, she never would have met her father, never would have realized her gift as anything other than a curse. Never would have met Lancelot, the man with whom she is to be Joined. She cannot contain her incredulity at the thought. A year ago, she would have scorned the thought of any of this, but now, it was true, it was her life. She has a family. It looks different than her childhood daydreams, but it is perfect, and it is hers. She has a purpose, a means of using an ability that had always felt like a burden. Nimue wishes her mother could be here to share all this, to meet Lancelot, her friends. For the first time, she feels like her mother would be proud of her, and a tear escapes her at the thought.  _ I hope to make you proud in everything I do. _

Nimue wipes the tears away, not wanting to linger on sadness and what could have been when there is so much to celebrate. For once, she does not feel consumed by fear and anxiety of what the future may bring. No, she feels hope wash over her, filling her with anticipation of the good days to come.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimue finally meets Mordred.

Merlin sits astride his horse, Mordred a short distance away on his own stallion, black as his hair, his heart. They had spent much of the trip in silence, Mordred not exactly what Merlin would call an ideal conversationalist. There is nothing casual about speaking with Mordred. Every word is laden with layers of meaning, and Merlin does not have the desire or the patience to parse through his hundreds of cryptic little clues.

“So, this Fey Queen,” Mordred starts, looking over at him, “do you think she means to keep the Sword?”

Merlin eyes him, suspicious, not too keen on the fact that this scheming weasel of a man is about to meet his daughter. “It is the Sword of our people,” he says with a shrug. “Would it not be right for it to remain with the Fey?”

Mordred laughs, but it is mirthless. “You and I both know it is so much more than that, Merlin.”

“You still desire to destroy it?” Merlin inquires, hoping he can get a more clear idea of Mordred’s motivation. 

Mordred says nothing for several moments, eyes straight ahead, leaving Merlin to assume he will not respond. Might he have a different intention? 

“Would that not be best?” Mordred wonders, rhetorically. “For us to determine our fate, and not bow to the whims of that cursed Sword?”

Relieved Mordred has not developed some new scheme involving stealing the Sword from Nimue, Merlin lets out a breath. “It is a noble idea, to be sure,” Merlin begins, pontificating, “but as far as we know, the Sword is indestructible.”

In all his time spent pretending to scour ancient texts to placate Mordred, he had actually found something quite interesting. According to an unknown source, destroying the Sword would bring about some sort of eternal imprisonment of death. It was all rather vague. In the past, life was already an eternal sort of imprisonment; how could it get worse? Now, something gives meaning to his life--the love of his daughter. If the time comes to destroy Excalibur, Merlin will be less eager than he once would have been. 

He could have Mordred destroy the Sword. That would solve two problems in one. They would all be free of the Sword’s influence and Mordred’s manipulations. Somehow, Merlin thinks that it could never work out that easily. Instead of solving his Mordred problem, he would be cursed with him for eternity and without his magic, to boot.

After many long hours, they approach the Fey camp, the vague scent of the ocean lingering on the breeze. Merlin empties his mind of all thoughts of the Sword. There would be plenty of time later to consider the future’s endless possibilities. Now, he is going to enjoy time with his daughter and share in the victory of his people.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

With the dust settled and the bodies burned, the children are retrieved and adjustments are made to fit the camp to its now smaller group of occupants. It is early afternoon and Nimue takes in the neat rows of trees, vibrant red fruit glistening in the sun’s light. “Catch, Nimue!” Squirrel exclaims, dropping a couple of apples from his perch on a high branch. Nimue pulls the excess fabric of her dress forward, creating a soft landing space for the tender fruit. 

“Careful!” she laughs, deftly catching his projectiles, “we do not want to bruise them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Squirrel mumbles, plucking a few more apples from the end of the branch.

Nimue sees Lancelot approaching from the corner of her eye, and she turns away from Squirrel momentarily to greet him. “Have you come to join us?” she asks with a smile that quickly turns into a wince when an apple hits her arm. 

She looks up at Squirrel who just then notices what caused her distraction. “Oops,” he says holding off on throwing any more apples down.

“As much fun as Percival throwing apples at me sounds,” Lancelot starts, speaking loudly so his voice carries to where Squirrel is perched. 

“It was an accident!” Squirrel insists, pouting just slightly. 

Nimue laughs at the boy’s response to Lancelot’s teasing, a gentle touch to her arm bringing her attention back to the welcome intruder. “I have been sent to inform you that Merlin is here,” he says, his voice much quieter now, “along with Mordred.”

An image of the Sword, bathed in flames flashes in her mind, much like night she had met Arthur. Only this time, the flames glow emerald. Then, there is water. Everywhere, surrounding her, making its home in her lungs. She barely hears Lancelot call out her name in question, consumed as she is by the premonition. Nimue convulses, collected apples sent tumbling as she falls to the ground, her vision going black. 

_ Merlin holds the Sword, bathed in green flames. Arthur and Guinevere sit enthroned in a castle, and the land prospers. Lancelot wades into the water, seeking something. The Sword is swallowed up by the water, immovably set in stone. Merlin falls, lifeless, the Sword turned to nothing but ash in the wind. Water fills her lungs and she coughs and coughs, but cannot clear them. A faceless form pulls the Sword from the stone. _

“Nimue!” 

She shoots up, Lancelot’s voice like an anchor, pulling her out of the maelstrom. Her breaths come in short gasps as the memory of what she has just seen threatens to consume her. Lancelot runs a hand down her back, encouraging her to breath deeply and slowly as she rests propped up in his arms. She focuses solely on him, and not the terrifying, confusing things she has seen. Squirrel, now on the ground, apples forgotten, rushes into her arms, clinging to her tightly. “Are you alright, Nimue?” he asks, the slightest hint of fear coloring his tone. The same question lies heavily in Lancelot’s eyes. 

“I am fine,” Nimue assures them both, lingering in the embrace that gives her comfort for a long moment. How they must look right now.  _ Like a family,  _ she thinks, smile growing as her strength returns. 

Nimue stands, with Lancelot’s assistance. “Now, let us go see Merlin. So much has happened since last we spoke.” She gives Lancelot a meaningful look, indicating that the news she is most eager to share is that which Merlin will take a more fatherly interest in. He blushes, just slightly at that, almost nervous, and again, Nimue grins from ear to ear. She would not trade this family she has found for anything.

Squirrel remains behind to gather the scattered fruit, while she and Lancelot head back to camp to greet her father and their mysterious benefactor. As she and Lancelot make their way through the trees, he tangles his fingers through hers, slowing her pace ever so slightly. “Are you sure you are alright?” he asks, concern furrowing his brow.

Nimue squeezes his hand in reassurance, “I am wonderful, my darling. I think I have just tired myself out preparing for life after war,” she says with a small smile.

He seems very skeptical, but lets it go, at least for now, when she leans up on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. She feels guilty for lying, but how can she explain what she does not understand herself? There would be time to parse through the haunting images later; now, it is time to plan for their people’s future.

As the camp comes into view, Nimue sees Merlin’s tall frame, standing beside a man of near equal stature. Mordred. He is rather austere in his appearance and mannerisms, but there is something wild about him, a chaos that lurks in his eyes, buried deep beneath the surface.

Nimue runs to her father, wrapping her arms around him. He does not hesitate this time, returning her embrace, letting out a sigh of relief that she is safe, locked in his arms. “I have so much to tell you,” she whispers, eager to share her news. 

She feels the barest of chuckles rumble through her chest. “And I, you, daughter,” he says, releasing her. He takes a step back, and motions to the man at his side, who looks between the two of them curiously. “This is Mordred,” he introduces the man, although the man who had pledged his troops to their cause hardly needed an introduction. 

“You have my sincerest gratitude for your show of alliance,” she addresses Mordred. “It was a hard-fought victory, and I am sorry for the men you have lost.”

Mordred gives a solemn nod in response to her apology before speaking to her for the first time. “It is a great relief to see that you have prevailed, Fey Queen.” His voice is smooth, and oddly comforting, yet, for some reason, it stirs a now-familiar image of her Sword, awash with green flames. 

She banishes the unwelcome flash of memory, of the future, smiling in reply, trying to formulate the proper response. Although, it seems she does not need to, as Mordred’s eyes flash to Lancelot. “Ah, the infamous Weeping Monk. So you are the one who kept my men in line.”

Nimue clears her throat, drawing Mordred’s attention back to her. “I think you will find Lancelot,” she corrects, “has done an admirable job in your absence.”

Mordred laughs at her fire, her defense of the man. “You’ll hear no argument from me, Fey Queen. I spoke to Galahad before you arrived, and I heard Lancelot,” he emphasizes the name, “has the makings of a great commander.” His eyes return to Lancelot, studying the marks beneath his eyes, curiously. “I also heard he killed a king.”

“He did,” Lancelot says, and Nimue can tell he is annoyed at being spoken of as if he is not present. “Speaking of kings, what does Uther have to say about our fate? That is why you have come, is it not?”

Merlin seems momentarily taken aback by Lancelot’s directness, but Mordred takes it in stride. “Indeed it is. Uther--”

“Uther will let the Fey live at peace in his kingdom,” Merlin interrupts, “if you,” he nods his head in her direction, “will swear fealty to him.”

“And the Sword?” Nimue asks, thinking there has to be some sort of caveat.

“He cares not,” Merlin says, his voice indicating he is as surprised as she is. “It can remain in your possession, so long as you swear loyalty to him.”

Is this it? Is peace truly on the horizon? It seems that is what Uther intends. But, what of her vision? For all she does not understand it, it spoke not of peace. At least, not the peace being promised. And what of the Church? Did Uther propose harmony only to turn a blind eye once more to the Church’s crusade? She asks as much.

“Mordred has so graciously offered his men to Uther’s service in protection of the Fey from any lingering or future threats the Church may present.” It is great news, but Nimue gets the feeling that her father is not exactly thrilled by the prospect of Mordred’s continued presence.

“Gracious indeed,” Nimue nods appreciatively toward Mordred. “I will speak to my council and get back to you with my response to Uther’s proposition,” she replies diplomatically. The answer seems obvious to her, but she will not make the decision without first consulting her most trusted advisors. At Merlin’s nod, she turns to go, to gather her council.

Mordred clears his throat gently, giving her pause. “There is just one more thing, your Majesty,” he begins, deferential, “if you will allow me a private audience?”

Lancelot seems disturbed by the idea, Merlin even more so, but now is hardly the time to go insulting their most valuable ally. “Of course, my lord,” Nimue says, gesturing for him to follow her away from the two most important men in her life. 

She leads him through the trees, far enough from camp that they will not be overheard. She is more than a little curious what it is he means to say to her that requires such privacy. “Well?” she turns on him, prompting him to speak, her curiosity making her impatient.

If he thinks her impatience rude, he gives no indication. “No one would fault you for swearing loyalty to Uther,” he starts, but something about his tone hints that perhaps he would find fault in that decision. “However, I would be remiss if I did not remind you that he has been reactionary to your plight, rather than proactive. Of course, I have sworn my men to protect your people, but I can only do as the King commands,” he trails off, implication clear. It is a reservation she herself had. Despite her father’s long history with the man, she finds him untrustworthy at best. It was clear to her from her interactions with him that he had little respect for her or her people, and she remains skeptical that he has no designs on the Sword of Power.

“So, what would you have me do?” Nimue inquires, prepared to entertain reasonable alternatives.

“Well, there is another with a greater claim to the throne, one that would be indisputable with your backing.”

“With my Sword, you mean,” she corrects. “And, you might find Guinevere not quite so amenable to this hypothetical usurpation,” Nimue informs him.

“I underestimated you,” Mordred says, looking down at her appreciatively. “Uther made you out to be naught but a foolish girl overburdened with a responsibility she could never hope to understand.” Nimue cannot help but roll her eyes, her distaste for Uther growing exponentially, even though the report does not surprise her. “But I see a clever Queen, considering every angle.”

“I am not one to be manipulated by pretty words from scheming men,” Nimue replies, looking up at him intently. “What are you suggesting? That we kill Uther Pendragon?”

“A true Pendragon with popular support, an army at her back, and the Sword of the First Kings in her grasp?” Mordred’s short laugh is tinged with a dark honesty. “We would not need to.”

Nimue recalls the glimpse of Guinevere and Arthur, ruling over a prosperous kingdom. The idea is more than a little tempting. Under their reign, the Fey could do more than just survive--they could thrive, given the chance to be a part of the world, using their gifts for the betterment of their neighbors. But still, something gives her pause. “I do not think the southern lords will take too kindly to being ruled by a woman.”

“Every Queen needs a King,” Mordred says, barely even hesitating. It seems he has an answer for everything.

“Why Arthur?” she wonders aloud, knowing it is him to whom Mordred refers. “He has neither wealth nor royal blood.”

“He has the heart of a king,” Mordred says simply, as if it is the most important factor when choosing a sovereign. He is not wrong. She has come to know Arthur incredibly well in a short time, has seen the way he resolves conflict, defends the downtrodden. He would make a wonderful King to Guinevere’s Queen. But, she wonders how Mordred could make the same assessment after mere moments in his presence.

“Well, you have certainly given me a lot to think about,” Nimue tells him, leading him back toward camp. “Let me speak with Guinevere and Arthur, and the rest of my council, and I will let you know what we decide.”

“Of course,” Mordred responds respectfully, leaving her in search of his men when they arrive back at camp.

Had she thought it would be easy to rule a people? There is uncertainty clouding each path, but Mordred’s alternative is certainly appealing. Nimue knows he is playing for his own advantage, she just does not know what it is. What she does know is that his maneuvering serves her purpose; with his help, she could achieve peace and prosperity for her people--she had seen it. But, at what cost? She recalls the rest of her vision--fire, and death, eternal suffering and water. One thing is for certain: she cannot make this decision alone. Weighted now with the destiny of a kingdom, Nimue sets off in search of those she trusts, knowing they will help her make the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! We're coming up on the end, now, only 5 or 6 more chapters.


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